


The Super Fun Month of February

by Maifai



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Derek is worried/protective alpha, Faeries - Freeform, Fluff, Hale Family Feels, Hurt!Stiles, M/M, Mama Stilinski Feels, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Pining, Poison, Post-Season/Series 02, Pre-Season/Series 03, Protective Derek, Scent Marking, Scott's a good pal, Slow Build, Stiles is dumb and thinks he can handle himself, Texting, Vomiting, Whump, boy crying, loss of hearing, temporary deafness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2017-12-16 08:18:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maifai/pseuds/Maifai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(This fic takes place before s3A)</p><p>Stiles stares at his stomach and is momentarily grateful his black shirt hid the bloodstains. He would have been found out immediately if he'd been wearing one of his lighter colored shirts. Actually, he's kind of surprised that he didn't get found out for the smell alone. Surely his wolves would have been able to smell the blood. They probably didn't single him out because of all the dead, bleeding faeries that had been surrounding them, though. It's a good thing he escaped to his jeep before they figured him out, then.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tuesday, February 1st, 2011

Stiles sways in place and stares at his hand. There's a nasty cut that runs across the length of his palm that has thick blood leaking out of it. He sighs, and wanders over to his bathroom. Gosh, what a night it’d been.

They had fought faeries. _Faeries_. Stiles had always thought that they were supposed to be nice little things that lived in flowers and tamed wild squirrels, and left dew where they walked. But no, as it turns out, they seem to kill every bit of foliage they walk on, they _eat_ squirrels (and any other poor helpless creature they get their hands on), and they are actually people sized. And have sharp teeth. And claws.

And are mean. And violent.

...And scary.

And one of them had gotten hold of Stiles at one point and tried to rip his throat out. With their _teeth_ , no less.

Luckily Scott had taken care of that faery before much damage was done. Well, okay, it bit Stiles’ hand open and had wound up slashing his stomach with its claws, but it wasn't something Stiles couldn't handle on his own. Which is why he didn't say anything when Derek asked if anyone got hurt. He didn't want to put anymore burden on them.

Those darn werewolves always had too much on their minds, anyway. Stiles can't imagine how stressful everything must be for them. They're always having to worry about their school and jobs and families, and how to act like a normal teenager even though once a month they suddenly shed their clothes and opt for fur. And each one of them is fighting their own demons all the while. Besides... even if he ever did mention any of his problems to them, they'd probably blow him off. Like always. He can't even bring himself to really care anymore.

But he _does_ care about how uncomfortable all this blood is starting to get. The gash on his stomach is sticking to his shirt, and it just feels so... _awful_. He stumbles over to his shower, turns it on, and steps inside. Even though his clothes and shoes are still on.

He watches blood and grime flow to the drain, and lowers his head to let the water run down his neck and back. The warmth of the shower eases some of the pain in his joints and he rolls his shoulders tiredly.

He sits down and lets all the water flow lazily down his cheeks. He leans against the back of the tub and looks down at his hand. The blood is still flowing freely. He clenches it into a fist, and watches in fascination as the blood begins to trickle through his knuckles, down his arm, and towards the drain.

Stiles stares at his stomach and is momentarily grateful his black shirt hides the bloodstains. He would have been found out immediately if he'd been wearing one of his lighter colored shirts. Actually, he's kind of surprised that he didn't get found out for the smell alone. Surely his wolves would have been able to smell the blood. They probably didn't single him out because of all the dead, bleeding faeries that had been surrounding them, though. It's a good thing he escaped to his jeep before they figured him out, then.

Stiles rests his head against the side of the tub, and watches the continuous stream of blood and mud flow from his body. He's about to close his eyes, the warm water(and probably the blood loss) lulling him to sleep, when-

"Stiles."

Stiles can't help that he screams in an unmanly fashion. He also can't help that he flails reflexively and rams his funny bone into the side of the tub.

"HOLY SHI- Oh my God!" He begins to to stamp at the end of the tub in pain and clutches at his elbow frantically. "Seriously?!" he screams.

Stiles turns to the motionless figure in the corner, prepared to berate him, when his dad bursts through the door. "Stiles, are you-!" 

Stiles' sneakers squeak embarrassingly as he scrambles onto his feet to face his father.

There's an awkward, uncomfortably quiet moment of Mr. Stilinski staring at his son, who is standing in the shower with his clothes and shoes still on. Stilinski nods slowly, before asking, "Stiles, why... are you showering fully clothed?"

Stiles stares at him, open-mouthed, before looking down at himself. He looks back up, grins, and throws his hands up. "Uh- my clothes were dirty! And I was too, so I figured I'd just, y'know, kill two birds with one stone. Yeah, just, clean myself in the shower, and then my clothes... at the same time..." He nods at his own explanation, eyeing Derek in the corner behind the door, and prepares for his dad's response.

"Okay, right. Well," his dad sighs, "just be sure to take a real shower before you head to bed. I have to go take another shift, so I probably won't be seeing you for the rest of the night."

Stiles nods at him. "That's fine, dad. I'll see you later."

Sheriff Stilinski smiles at him, and leaves.

Stiles waits for the front door downstairs to shut, before turning to Derek. "How did you get in here?! There're no windows!"

Derek raises an eyebrow at him. "Through your bedroom door."

"You actually used a door?" Stiles says, incredulous. "That's a miracle! It's a miracle! Praise the Lord, sing hallelujah, we gotta alert the press-!"

"Stiles," Derek growls. "Shut up."

Stiles stares at him, then sighs. "Fine." He sits back down, and watches Derek through the still streaming water. "So why are you here? Do you get your kicks out of watching a vulnerable boy take a shower? That's disgusting, man, you're disgusting!"

"You're wearing clothes," Derek points out, sighing.

"Yeah, this time, but how many times do you watch me without them?!" Stiles yelps.

Derek just barks at him. Loudly. _Like a dog._

"Shutting up," Stiles mumbles. They sit in silence for a few moments (well, Stiles is sitting, Derek is brooding in the corner), and as the shower continues, Stiles watches a small trail of blood flow down the drain.

"Where were you bit?"

Stiles jumps at the sudden breaking of silence, and turns to Derek. "Sheesh, warn me next time!"

Derek just glares. "Stiles," he repeats. "Where were you bit?"

Stiles turns away from Derek's freakish red alpha eyes and stares at the blood flowing by his feet. "I don't know what you're talking about," Stiles says.

"Was it your hand?" Derek asks.

"Of course not! I'm fine, look!" Stiles throws his left hand up and flips it front to back. "See? Nothing!"

"Your other hand," Derek growls.

Stiles just shrugs at him. "Why would you suspect my other hand?"

"Because you've kept it in your pocket since you noticed I was here."

Stiles swallows thickly, and breaks his eyes from Derek's gaze. "My hand's fine," he mutters.

Suddenly Derek's growling above him, and Stiles can't help that he jumps. He can't help that the jolt causes a twinge of pain in his stomach. He can't help that he winces. He knows Derek notices.

Derek grabs the hood of Stiles' soaked jacket, and Stiles tries to ignore the quickening pace of his heart. "Stand. Up." Derek grinds out. "You've been bitten, and for what ever idiotic reason, you're not telling me where. Now stand up!"

Stiles scrambles up and allows himself to be slightly perturbed by Derek's hold on his jacket. "I don't know why you keep insisting I've been bitten," Stiles stammers. "I mean, do you even have any proof?"

Derek stares him in the eye for a suffocating moment, then looks at Stiles' feet pointedly.

Stiles looks down also and notices the blood flowing by his feet. He glances back up at Derek, and Derek waits for Stiles' explanation. Stiles swallows minutely. "Alright, you got me. I'm on my period."

Derek has him by the collar and is slamming him into the wall before Stiles even has a chance to take a breath. It's so sudden and so shocking that Stiles almost misses what's said next, the pain in his head and stomach fighting to drown out Derek's words. "Stiles, this is serious! Their fangs and claws are laced with a deadly poison, and it will slowly numb you and kill you unless you let me treat the bite!"

Stiles takes a few gasping breaths, and he knows Derek can hear that he's wheezing. "Numbing, huh? Well, that explains why it hasn't been hurting as much as it probably should."

Derek only growls in response, but to Stiles' delirious ears it sounds more concerned than angry.

"Okay, buttercup, simmer down," Stiles says to Derek's pinched expression. "Look, I give, alright?" He holds up his right hand and tries to ignore the blood he can see collecting under his fingernails. "Their teeth grazed me."

"Grazed," Derek scoffs. He grips Stiles' wrist, and, holy crap, he looks pissed. He looks like this scratch on Stiles' palm is enough reason to torch every faery on the planet, and while Stiles highly enjoys that idea, he knows he has to show Derek the wound on his stomach. This'll be fun.

"Hold on, Derek," Stiles rasps, and Gosh when did his voice start quitting out on him? Faery poison, honestly. "You said their claws were poisoned, too? Well, you're not gonna like this, but..."

With his left hand (his right is still in the clutches of Derek's monstrous fingers), he gingerly pries his shirt up, new blood sticking to the fabric obnoxiously.

If Derek looked angry before, he now looked downright _furious_. Like, rip-your-heart-out-through-your-throat furious. Stiles was grateful that the look wasn't directed at him. Unless it actually was and Derek had just had it with Stiles' utter incompetence.

"You're not gonna rip my heart out through my throat, are you?" he croaks.

Derek looks absolutely baffled for a moment, as though he can't understand why Stiles would think he'd be mad at him. Instead of replying immediately, he picks Stiles up and out of the tub before turning off the shower. He grips Stiles tight on the shoulders, forcing him to face Derek completely. "Don't hide an injury from me again, and I won't have to," he growls.

"Right, good, yeah. I'll keep that in mind. No more secrets from Derek, alpha werewolf must know all," Stiles forces out.

Derek grunts approvingly and turns Stiles to face the door, before shoving his back roughly. "Start walking."

"Alright, cool, yeah, through the door. Y'know, Derek, this is a great idea, really good. I love tracking water and blood through my house. It's not like these carpets are gonna have a problem with blood staining them, because they're a really dark color and no one's gonna even notice. These stains won't be a pain to take out or anything. Hey, I think I'm gonna probably die, because-"

"Can you just stop?" Derek interrupts.

Stiles stares at him for a long moment, wide-eyed and tight lipped, before, "I think I'm gonna die of hypothermia if we go outside and I don't change out of these clothes. Because if you hadn't noticed, they're soaked all the way through and I'm actually kind of freezing right now and all I want is to go back in my room and go to bed and where are you taking me anyway?" he says once they reach the stairs.

Derek just looks at him wearily, and says, "I don't understand how you can talk so much when you're supposed to be bleeding to death."

Stiles starts stumbling down the stairs when he says, "Well actually, funny thing, that. Wait, no- it's actually not that funny. But I've noticed that I talk a whole lot more when I'm really sick or when I break a bone and sometimes right before I have a panic attack, I used to get those all the time, and I'm kind of hoping I'm not gonna have one right now because I'm already having a bit of trouble breathing because of this hole in my stomach and I'm actually really freaking out-" He trips on a step, and before he can hit his head on either the floor or the railing, Derek has a strong arm around his waist. The sudden pressure makes Stiles grunt, and he's pretty sure that the blood's seeping out of his shirt and onto Derek's arm now.

"You need to calm down," Derek tells him, and it's said so gently that it leaves Stiles unprepared for being tossed up onto Derek's shoulder.

"Wh- Ow! Hey!" he yelps. "Derek, put me down!"

Derek tightens his hold on Stiles' legs, and grumbles, "Shut up, this is faster." Even though it really is faster, it doesn't stop Stiles from struggling in Derek's grasp. He knows his blood is getting all over Derek's shoulder.

"Derek, you big lug, you have no right to toss me around like some rag doll- Oh my God, it's cold," he gasps when the front door is opened. He shivers involuntarily when the night air reaches his still soaked body. Derek lowers Stiles down his chest as they continue closer to the Camaro, and wraps his arms around Stiles' trembling body wordlessly. Stiles realizes that Derek's trying to keep him blanketed in his warm werewolf arms, and shielded from the chilly breeze. While the thought warms Stiles metaphorically, it doesn't keep him from trembling violently. And he's really grateful for the notion, so he refrains from calling Derek a big warm-hearted puppy in lieu of being dropped on the frosty grass and being left to die.

All of Derek's kind actions dissipate anyway though, with the force he uses to toss Stiles onto the passenger seat. Derek gets into the driver's side, and as soon as he has the car on he turns the heater up as high as it will go. Yet Stiles continues to shake, even as the warm air hits him.

As they get onto the road, Derek pulls out his phone and starts dialing. "Scott", Derek barks into his phone. "We have a problem." Stiles watches Derek's face, trying to guess what Scott's saying based on his expressions. "No, no more faeries. They're all dealt with. It's Stiles."

Stiles is sure Scott's yelling, but he can't hear him. Which is weird, because normally he can at least hear the mumbling sound of the person on the other line. But right now he can only hear Derek. And even then, just barely.

"Yes. His hand and stomach." Silence. "Yes, it's bad. Listen, meet us at the animal clinic immediately." Derek looks over at Stiles then, locking eyes. "Bring a clean change of clothes. Shirt and pants. Maybe jacket." Scott says something, and Derek growls. "Just meet us there. Now." He hangs up, and turns back to the road.

Stiles continues to tremble into the seat, and he figures that he's probably going into shock. "Derek", he groans through chattering teeth.

Derek glances at him. "What's wrong?"

Stiles lets his teeth chatter for a bit, before saying, "How come you couldn't tell where I got bit?"

Derek looks at him fully (or at least, as much as he can while driving), but doesn't reply.

"Couldn't you smell the blood?" Stiles adds shakily.

Derek exhales. "All of you smelled like blood."

"Can't you tell my blood from faery blood?" Stiles asks.

"All of you smelled like _your_ blood," Derek says, frowning. "And you were coated in the scent of venom."

"Oh," is all Stiles says.

He curls up a bit in the seat, his right arm wrapped protectively around his stomach, his right hand clenched tight in a fist. It occurs to him that his trembling hasn't gone down. In fact, it's gotten worse. A particularly violent tremor suddenly rips through him and he gasps quietly.

Derek's hand is placed on his forehead, and it's big and warm and grounding, and Stiles leans into the seat a little, feeling very tired.

Derek says something quietly and Stiles drags his sluggish eyes to look at him. "What?" he says. Derek turns to him and he starts talking again. But Stiles can't hear it. Absentmindedly he notes that his ears feel like they've been stuffed full of cotton. He furrows his brows at Derek and wonders what he's saying. He looks like he's trying to ask Stiles a question, and is growing increasingly frustrated the longer he doesn't get an answer.

"I can't hear you," Stiles whispers, mostly to himself. But he knows Derek hears it. Derek turns back to the road, and Stiles can't help but notice the way Derek's hands tighten around the steering wheel. He continues to watch Derek, when his eyes begin to drift shut of their own accord.

He only keeps his eyes closed for a few seconds, when a big hand is suddenly grabbing him from behind. He feels himself yelp before he's throwing his hands out and kicking his feet. The hands responsible for his freak out start trying to grab his limbs to calm him down. The hands belong to Derek, who's standing outside Stiles' now open passenger door, and- wait, exactly when did they arrive at the animal clinic? And why hadn't Stiles even noticed when Derek got out? "When did we get here?" he feels himself asking. And, okay, Stiles'd be lying if he said not being able to hear himself speak didn't scare him.

Derek frowns at him and pulls him out of the car. "What, you're not even gonna try responding?" Stiles asks. "I can't hear anything right now, you could say any offensive thing you want, you could be dishonoring my family or something like that, and I wouldn't even be able to defend myself. This is a total golden opportunity. If I was in your place, I'd be talking all kinds of smack." Stiles smiles to himself, looks up at Derek, and realizes that his lips are moving. "Okay," Stiles says, "either you're taking my advice and you're talking crap about my ancestors, or you're trying to say something important."

Derek glances at him, then nods his head forward.

"Scott!" Stiles chirps the moment he notices the McCall van. Scott pulls into the parking lot sloppily, and gosh he really shouldn't be allowed on the roads.

Scott barrels out of the driver side and starts running right at Stiles, yelling something frantically. At first Stiles is convinced Scott's running at him because he's about to _kill_ him, and really, considering how many attempts are made at his life, it's hard to blame his delirious mind. But he realizes Scott's yelling 'Stiles', right before the clumsy werewolf is crashing into him. He slams into Derek's Camaro obnoxiously, and man he really doesn't have the energy to be bothered that Scott's manhandling him like a worried soccer mom. He just wants to go home and lie down.

But then Scott starts touching Stiles' face and that is actually _really_ obnoxious. He smacks Scott's hands, and snaps, "What?"

Scott starts saying something in his face and all Stiles can think is that he's way too tired to even try reading lips.

"I can't hear you," he whines instead, sagging shamelessly like an upset kid.

Scott looks a little terrified then, when a third hand that came out of absolutely nowhere is pulling up Stiles' soaked, bloody shirt.

"Whoah!" He gapes up at Derek. Derek just stares back, and Stiles looks pointedly at Derek's hand. The one pulling his shirt up. "You haven't even bought me dinner yet!" Stiles says. Stiles looks away from whatever most likely hilarious face Derek's making, and instead at Scott. Scott, who is staring at Stiles' stomach and looks like he might be sick.

Stiles looks down also, and the wound looks way worse than he remembers. There's dried blood sticking all over, and it's all coagulated and nasty, and there's a weird black ooze around the deepest part, and oh God there is just blood _everywhere._

"Wow," Stiles gasps. "That doesn't look good."

And then he immediately passes out.

* * *

When Stiles comes to, he's on the metal slab in the animal clinic. _Oh gross_ , Stiles thinks, _dead things have laid on this._  

He looks around and finds Scott and Derek by the cabinet, Derek obviously explaining something important about the mysterious little jar he's holding.

"For the record," Stiles says, before trailing off. He still can't hear himself, but the other two hear him no problem. They whip around at him, like they weren't expecting him to wake up yet. "For the record," Stiles says again, "I don't faint at the sight of blood."

Scott smiles at him, humoring him no doubt, and Stiles can see Derek huff. Whether it's out of annoyance or amusement, though, Stiles can't tell.

Scott starts coming at him, again trying to say something. Stiles squints and mumbles, "Still can't hear."

Scott's face falls, and he looks to Derek for direction. Derek looks Scott in the eye and says something, shaking the little jar in his hand. Probably for emphasis. Scott asks Derek a question, and this time when Derek answers, he's baring his teeth. Scott visibly wilts.

Derek starts stalking around to where Stiles' feet are, apparently taking Scott's actions as some sort of cue. It's then that Stiles realizes he's shirtless and is wearing a clean, dry pair of pants.

"Okay," Stiles says. "Scott, I'm gonna assume you're the one that changed my clothes. And let me just say, I'm really uncomfortable knowing you stripped my unconscious body of any clothing." Scott smacks Stiles' head in response and Stiles smiles. "I knew you couldn't resist me, dude." He sees Scott let out a small laugh and shake his head.

Derek grabs Stiles' ankle and Stiles looks down at him. "What, you want some of this, big guy?" he asks. Derek doesn't even try responding, and instead reaches up and places his hand on Stiles' wound, his palm resting on Stiles' abdomen. It's then that it hits Stiles that his torso is completely numb. From his pelvis to his sternum, he can't feel anything.

In a surge of panic and curiosity, he smacks himself experimentally in the ribs. Nope, nothing. He can't even feel a slight sting. "I can't feel anything," he chokes. He cranes his neck up and looks to Scott, who's standing over him. "Scott!" he gasps, desperately.

Scott starts talking, and Stiles can tell by the look on his face that he's trying to say something reassuring. Obviously he fails, based on how his eyes keep flicking to Derek for help.

Stiles feels a squeeze on his ankle, and he looks down to see Derek grasping it with his other hand. "It's okay", Derek mouths at him. In all actuality though he probably said it out loud. But the look Derek is giving him is so honest and so sure, so open and vulnerable, that Stiles lets himself believe the words. He lets himself believe that everything really is okay. That they can get through this.

Derek squeezes his ankle again and Stiles whimpers, "Okay."

Derek glances up at Scott, and Scott takes Stiles' injured hand. With dread, Stiles notes that his hand is numb now, too. From his fingertips to his elbow, it's all numb.

"Alright, so," Stiles forces out. "How do we intend to fix this?" He looks down at Derek and they lock eyes. They hold for a few seconds. Derek breaks away first, instead focusing on Scott.

He says a few words and takes his hand off of Stiles' stomach. He pulls out the mysterious little jar from earlier, pops the top off, and dips his fingers into the milky substance. He starts saying something to Scott. Explaining what he's doing, is Stiles' guess.

Derek tosses the jar to Scott, and places his hand with the weird potion covered fingers back on Stiles' stomach. Scott lets go of Stiles' hand for a bit and when he takes it again his own fingers are coated in the milky potion.

"Okay, what is that stuff on your fingers? Please don't tell me it's your..." Derek is giving him the scariest glare in existence. "Right, not going there," Stiles mumbles. Derek looks back up at Scott, and Stiles has a moment of self-loathing for being able to read Derek's next words on his lips.

"Three."

Seriously, why does he even stare at Derek's lips so much? He has a serious problem that requires much pondering over.

"Two."

Okay, honestly though, Stiles is freaking out. Because Derek is counting down and usually count downs lead to a whole lot of pain and _OH GOODNESS GRACIOUS HERE COMES ONE-_

"One." 

Stiles tenses up and he watches Derek raise his hand, his nails having turned into claws. Derek slams his hand back down, the claws going right into Stiles' open wound.

Slowly, oh so slowly, Stiles' hearing comes back. And with it, an ear splitting scream. After a few moments of his throat tearing itself up, Stiles realizes the scream is coming from him. But he has no intention of stopping. 

He can feel the claws in his stomach, and they _burn_. It's searing and agonizing, and when Scott stabs his own claws into Stiles' hand, he can't help but break down into sobs. It's pathetic, he knows, but never in his life has he felt pain to this extent. At least, not physically.

His back arches, and it's a subconscious attempt to get away from the terrible burning. "Stop!" he screams through gritted teeth. "Please!"

There's a hand on his shoulder, trying to rub in soothing circles, and Stiles knows it's Scott. "I'm sorry Stiles, I know, I'm sorry, but we gotta, you gotta bear through this." Scott sounds frantic and far away, and it doesn't ease Stiles' grief.

The claws in his stomach start to go deeper, and Stiles lets out a choked, pained shout. " _Derek!_ " He kicks out desperately, and his feet occasionally make contact with either Derek's arms or chest. Stiles doesn't even feel bad, he just wants the pain to  _go away._

His left hand swings up and finds Scott's shoulder, and he squeezes hard in an attempt to transfer all of his pain through to his grip on the fabric. He can hear Scott mumbling, "I'm sorry, Stiles, hang in there," and Scott tightens his grip on Stiles' hand, but it just makes his claws go in deeper.

Stiles cries out, and he can feel the steady stream of tears rolling down his cheeks. "Stop it," he begs. "Stop it."

The claws in his stomach push further, and he screams through tightly clenched teeth. "Derek!" he forces out. "You're going to kill me!"

He looks down, prepared to berate Derek while looking him straight in the eye, when he finally notices.

His stomach is literally  _coated_ in a black slime. It's smeared everywhere and is pooling on the table around him, and it's seriously just gushing out of the open wound.

"Oh my God, what is that?" he squeaks.

"The faery's poison," Derek grunts. "It's mixed in with your blood, and this is the only way to get it out."

Stiles whimpers, and good Lord Derek is wrist-deep in the stuff. Wait, backtrack. Wrist-deep in Stiles' _stomach_. Oh God. Stiles' head falls back, sweat and tears trickling down his face.

The last thing he hears is Scott yelling Derek's name.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So!! How was it?? I hope it's alright, this is the first fanfic I've ever written hhhhh it's prolly easy to tell. Anyways, next chapter is basically a breather chapter, so not much happens. But in the third (or is it the fourth??) chapter, the whole potion thing gets explained, along with some other stuff. So lemme know what you think, and please, let me know if you find any grammatical errors or misspellings! Thank you!


	2. Friday, February 4th, 2011

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles wakes up in the hospital.

It's bright. It's too bright. His eyes are closed, but the light shines through his eyelids and it is so, so bright. He wants to cry, he wants to tell them to turn it off, but he can't. Everything hurts.

"Prepare him for surgery!"

* * *

He dreams of his mom. Dreams of how she used to be, of how his life used to be. She smiles at him, hugs him and gives him kisses. He tells her he misses her. He can hear someone crying just above the surface of the dream. He doesn't know why they're crying, but he wants to wake up, if only to reassure them that everything will be okay. He hopes everything will be okay. He feels tears on his cheeks.

* * *

There's a hand in his. It's tight and solid, and it makes him feel secure. It makes him feel safe. He hopes they never let go.

* * *

When Stiles wakes up, he doesn't have to open his eyes to know he's in a hospital. It's the smell that gives it away. It's not necessarily unpleasant, but rather very noticeable and very distinctive. It's a very clean smell, similar to what you'd come across when walking into a very recently wiped down bathroom.

The second thing that tips him off is the beeping. It sounds like there might be three or more different machines, and he knows those are going to be distracting if he doesn't get to his medication soon.

He opens his eyes. On his left, his dad is sleeping, his head resting near Stiles' hand. He looks exhausted. Old. Stiles doesn't want to wake him up, but he has to know how long he's been out. 

He lifts his hand, and his fingers graze Sheriff Stilinksi's cheek. "Dad," he croaks, his voice raspy with under-use.

Stilinski jolts into consciousness, and his eyes immediately seek out Stiles.

"Stiles," he whispers breathlessly. And, oh boy, here come the waterworks.

Stiles smiles at him. "Hey, dad." Sheriff Stilinski is hugging him tight around the neck, albeit gently, in a matter of milliseconds. Stiles reaches around to pat his shoulder, his dad shuddering with quiet sobs. "I'm okay, dad. Look, I'm okay, it's okay."

They stay like that for a while, and when he breaks away, he gives Stiles a red-faced, tear stained, stern look. "God, Stiles. You scared me. It was serious hit and miss for a while there."

"I'm sorry," Stiles whispers. "What happened?"

His dad frowns at him. "You don't remember?"

Oh, no. He remembers. More vividly than he'd prefer, to be honest. But he has to know what Scott or Derek told authorities, just to make sure their story isn't incredibly idiotic. Instead, he says, "Not really, it's all a bit fuzzy." His dad leans back, and looks Stiles up and down, his arms crossed. He takes a deep breath, and opens his mouth.

"It was a mountain lion attack."

Really, Scott? That's what you came up with?

"Scott said you two had been in the woods, and had gotten separated. He said that when he found you, you were covered in blood. Man, Stiles, you know we've been having mountain lion attacks. What did you think you were doing out there?"

Uh oh, Stiles doesn't know how to answer that question yet. Stiles swallows, and asks instead, "What else happened? How did I get here?"

His dad runs a hand down his face tiredly, and sighs. "When Scott was trying to figure out what to do, he ran into Derek Hale. Derek Hale, of all people. He drove you guys here. Considering how often you two have accused him of murder, I'm surprised he helped you at all." Sheriff Stilinski shakes his head and slumps in his chair. "He carried you in here. God, he was covered in your blood, Stiles. Absolutely covered. His clothes were completely soaked through." He puts his head in his hands and rubs his eyes. "Remind me to give that kid a medal."

Stiles laughs and oh ouch that actually really hurts. "Hey, dad?" Stiles wheezes. "Where's Scott?"

His dad huffs. "We _just_ got him to go home and get some rest. We told him he's not allowed here today. He's been here almost the whole time, except to go to school. He should've left a while ago, honestly. He looked terrible on the first day. Probably blames himself for this."

Wait, first day?

"How long have I been out?" Stiles asks.

His dad exhales slowly. "Three days." 

Holy- Three whole days?! Stiles curses. Loudly.

"Language," his dad warns.

"Sorry," Stiles mutters. "But seriously? I was attacked on, what, Tuesday? What day is it today?"

"Friday," his dad grumbles.

"No!" Stiles groans. "Augh, that's a whole week of school! I must have a monstrous pile of homework!"

"Well, then it's a good thing you're a straight A student. You won't have to worry about any of this ruining your grades."

"But it'll take so long to catch up!" Stiles whines. 

"Lucky you spring break is in two weeks, then. You won't have to worry about being bored, you'll always have work to do."

Stiles grumbles. "You are terrible."

His dad smiles. "I try my best."

He yawns then, and Stiles waits for him to finish his really, really, long, deep yawn before saying, "Dad. You need to get some sleep."

His dad rubs his eyes. "I _was_ sleeping."

"Yeah, in a chair. We both know how bad that is for your back. Go home, dad. Sleep in a real bed. For both our sakes." Stiles smiles. "I'm alright. I promise." He pats his dad's hand. "I'll still be here, sleeping in this _real_ bed."

His dad waits for a while, trying to think of a good excuse to stay, before nodding reluctantly. "Alright. You're right. I'll be back, though."

"I don't doubt that." They smile at each other, and his dad steps out. 

Stiles waits.

"How has no one noticed you yet? I mean, not to be rude, but you're not really the stealthiest person. Well, okay, actually you are, but seriously. How long have you been in here?" Stiles turns to the still figure in the darkest corner.

Derek stares back at him, unmoving.

"Are you gonna say anything? Or are you just gonna leave all the talking to the dying kid? I'm gonna be honest, that seems kind of cruel. And inconsiderate."

"You're not dying," Derek chokes out.

Stiles raises his eyebrows. "Wow. You sound worse than me. I mean, I sound more like a toad with a cold than you do, but you sound terrible. Have you gotten any sleep?"

Derek stares at him.

"I'm gonna take that as a no. That's just unhealthy, man. Here, come here." He beckons weakly with his hand and Derek hesitates. "Oh, come on. I'm not gonna bite you," Stiles teases. Derek frowns at the wording, but starts to step forward anyway.

When he comes into the light, Stiles realizes how terrible he _really_ looks. He's in the same shirt that he was wearing on Tuesday. When he found Stiles in the shower, it had been a grayish-white color. Now, it's covered in a dark, deep brown. In Stiles' blood.

"Derek," Stiles breathes out shakily. "Oh, Derek, come here." Derek steps closer, but barely. Almost like he's afraid to get near Stiles. Stiles sighs, and with shaking arms starts to push himself up into a sitting position. He holds his hand out towards Derek, and watches him worriedly. "I promise you won't hurt me."

At that, Derek looks up and takes a shallow breath. He steps closer and Stiles pulls him the rest of the way by the hem of his shirt.

"There. Was that so hard?" Now that he's closer, Stiles can get a good look at him. Not only is Stiles' blood all over his clothes, but it's on his skin, too. It's on his neck, on his hands, and there's even a smudge of it on his cheek. And he looks so, so tired. Like he hasn't slept in three days. Well, shoot. He probably _hasn't_ slept in three days. "You look awful," Stiles whispers. 

Derek sways in place, and Stiles says, "God, sit down, you don't have to keep standing." Derek sits on the floor next to the bed, and Stiles stares at him. "You know there are such things as chairs."

Derek glares.

"Oh, good, at least your glares are still working," Stiles chirps.

Derek doesn't say anything and keeps his eyes trained on the floor.

Stiles sighs. "Are you gonna talk to me? 'Cause I'm starting to feel like I'm talking to a wax figurine. _Are_ you a wax figurine? This is making me think of 'Lars and the Real Girl.' Have you ever seen that? We should totally watch it when I'm better. Or when you're better. How are you feeling, by the way? Because let me just say, you look terrible." Somewhere amidst his talking, Stiles' fingers found their way into Derek's hair.

They're combing through gently, softly. It's what Stiles' mom would do whenever he got sick. Derek doesn't seem too bothered by it, either. He lets Stiles run his fingers through his hair, and doesn't even growl when Stiles catches a particularly tough tangle. In fact, he looks like he's falling asleep. Hell, this is making Stiles fall asleep.

"Your hair is really greasy," Stiles mumbles.

Derek grunts.

"Y'know, if you need to take a shower, you can go to my house. I'm gonna be here for a few more days, and I imagine my dad'll be here most of the time, too. You can use my bathroom when no one's home. And, seriously, you have got to change out of those clothes. If I have any shirts big enough, feel free to take them. Just, seeing you covered in _my_ blood is making me really uncomfortable." Stiles' words are beginning to slur together, and he can tell he's not far from sleep. They must have him on some pretty heavy drugs at the moment.

"You don't have to keep staying here, you know. Whether you're staying here out of guilt, or anger, or shame, or loneliness, or complete and utter lunacy, you need to rest. You can sleep in my room, if you have nowhere else to go. It's gonna be devoid of life for a while, anyway." His fingers still in Derek's hair and his eyes become increasingly more difficult to keep open. 

"If it really is guilt that's keeping you here, keep in mind that you saved my life. I mean, I'm not saying I wanna go through that again or anything... Actually that was like the worst thing I've ever experienced. Don't you dare ever put me through that again. But aside from that, you really did save my life. I don't know what you did exactly, and I'm gonna interrogate you about that milky stuff later, but I would not be here without you. I owe my life to you, man." His eyes close. "So thank you."

Derek doesn't move until Stiles falls asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one done! This one is pretty short, and next chapter is gonna be just as short. But the fourth chapter is so far the longest one, so look forward to it! And again, lemme know if you find any grammatical errors or misspellings!


	3. Tuesday, February 8th, 2011

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After three days of pleading and whining (mostly on Stiles' part), the hospital finally agrees to let Stiles continue his recovery at home.

After three days of pleading and whining (mostly on Stiles' part), the hospital finally agrees to let Stiles continue his recovery at home. Under the condition that he take it easy and take his prescribed medication, they trust the sheriff to keep his son safe and healthy in their own home.

"Alright, Stiles," his dad says, unpacking all of the medication bottles onto the table. "You have to take these ones before bed, and these ones every few hours."

"Ugh, do I have to take all of those?" Stiles whines.

"Well, unless you want to be an immobilized ball of pain, I suggest you take them. And now maybe you'll think twice about wandering around in the woods at night. Which, by the way, you still haven't told me _why_ you were out there in the first place," his dad grumbles.

"We were looking for a flower," Stiles blurts out. His dad stares disbelievingly at him. Stiles sighs, and says, "Valentines day is coming up, y'know? Scott wanted to find a really awesome flower for Allison, and he asked me for help. I know of this really neat looking rose that grows deep in the forest, so we went to go look for it. But then we got kind of lost. And then, as we all know, I ran into that lion." Stiles can be plenty good at lying when he needs to be, thank you very much.

His dad crosses his arms and asks, "And how did you know that flower was there, deep in the woods?"

"I take walks there a lot," Stiles says. And, okay, that wasn't a lie.

His dad shakes his head, and says,"I don't want you in those woods anymore."

Stiles straightens up. "But, dad! I'm in those woods all the time, they're totally safe!" Lie. Werewolves and the like don't often point to safety. "This was like a one time thing, it won't happen again. I can handle myself, I promise!"

"Stiles." His dad runs a hand down his face, and he looks tired.

Stiles hates making his dad so tired. His shoulders slump. "Alright, dad. Alright. I'll stay out of the woods."

He knows that staying out of the woods isn't realistically possible for him, at least not with all the wolves he has to keep track of. But he'll do anything to make his dad's life a little easier. Even if it means he has to lie.

Stiles takes a deep breath and rubs the back of his neck. "I'm gonna head to bed. Been a long week, y'know?" He gestures to the medication on the table with his hand. "Meds are making me kinda drowsy, anyway."

His dad nods and rubs his eyes. "Alright. Need help up the stairs?"

Stiles shakes his head. "Nah, I can manage." He grabs the meds on the table and heads towards the stairs.

"I love you, Stiles," his dad calls.

"Love you too, father o' mine!"

* * *

 It takes him roughly ten minutes to get up the stairs.

When he reaches his room and flicks on the light, the last thing he's expecting is Scott in his bed. Rolling in his bed, actually. He yelps and throws a bottle of pills at Scott's head.

Scott sits up and frowns at him. "Why did you do that?" He rubs his head like it actually hurt him. Drama queen.

"Why are you in my bed?" Stiles asks back.

"Why does your bed smell like Derek?" Scott counters.

Stiles opens his mouth to argue, when Scott's words register. "Wait, what?"

"It smells like Derek!" Scott says, and makes a burrito out of himself and Stiles' blankets.

Stiles holds up a finger. "Okay, I might've said he could sleep here while I was at the hospital, but I didn't say you could. So I ask again, why are you in my bed?"

"Can't let it smell like Derek," Scott growls into the sheets.

Stiles pauses. "Is this a territory thing? This is a territory thing, isn't it. A freaky, werewolf, scent territory thing. If you start peeing in my bed, I'm gonna kick you out."

Scott tangles himself up tighter in Stiles' sheets.

"God- Get out of my bed already!" Stiles stomps over and grabs Scott by the shoulders, and starts yanking him off the bed. It makes the pain in his stomach twinge a bit, but it's nothing compared to what the stairs did to him. He had to take a breather every four steps, it was embarrassing. Next time he'll know better than to refuse help.

Scott lands on the floor, taking half the blankets with him. He whines like a puppy.

"Oh, stop that!" Stiles scoffs. "I came up here to sleep in _my_ room, in _my_ bed, and to be honest I don't care who it smells like. So please, Scott, go home and let me _sleep_."

Scott grumbles and shimmies out of the pile of blankets.

"That's better," Stiles mutters, and pushes his blankets back on his bed. "Why are you here, anyway?"

Scott rubs the back of his head. "Came to check on you," he mumbles.

"Oh." Stiles spreads out the sheets on his bed. "Well, I'm alright, as you can see. How long have you been in here?"

"A while," Scott says.

"Right, okay. Then, did you hear the story I came up with? We're gonna run with that, alright? The one about Allison and the flower?"

"Yeah, I heard. We'll run with it," Scott nods.

"Good."

"Wait, is there really a cool rose that grows in the woods?" Scott asks.

Stiles stares at him, and grins. "Seriously?"

Scott shifts nervously. "Uh, yeah?" he asks.

Stiles laughs, and waves his hand. "Ah, Scott, I knew you hadn't gotten Allison anything yet- Oh, don't give me that look. Yeah, don't worry, sport. I'll help you get the rose in the woods."  


Scott gives him a huge, heartfelt grin. "Thanks, man."

Stiles smiles back. "Anytime, dude. Now, go home so I can get some rest."

Scott nods. "Sure thing."

As he's heading for the window, Stiles pipes up. "Oh, and Scott?" Scott gets his feet out the window and looks back at Stiles expectantly. "Next time, help me up the stairs, would you?"

Scott just smiles, and then he's gone.

* * *

 When Stiles wakes up four hours later, it dawns on him that he's made a grave mistake. He went to bed without taking his pills. And now he's suffering the consequences for it. Like, seriously suffering. The kind of suffering that's so agonizing that it brings tears to your eyes.

He groans and places his hand over his stomach instinctively. His right hand twitches in discomfort and mild pain, but it's nothing compared to what his stomach is doing.

The muscles are clenching uncontrollably, and he can feel the spasms pulling on his stitches. Stiles grits his teeth against the pain and tries to remember where he left his meds. Scott's stupid face comes to mind and he remembers that he threw the bottle of pills at it. Which means the pills must be somewhere on his bedroom floor. 

He takes a few deep breaths, prepares himself mentally, and sits up.

In a matter of moments, it becomes clear that what he needs is _not_ the bottle of pills, but a _toilet_.

He scrambles out of his blankets and slams out into the hallway, bee-lining it straight for the bathroom. Stiles stops in front of the toilet and just barely gets the seat up before he starts puking.

The heaving is tight and painful, and it makes his eyes water excessively. He grasps the side of the sink above him for balance, and squeezes it whenever his stomach contracts violently. After about a minute of straight up vomiting, his body finally starts to settle. When the last of it tapers off, he rests his head against the seat and takes deep, shaky breaths. He closes his eyes, and the collected moisture overflows and spills over his cheeks, making small, cold tears.

 _Note to self_ , Stiles thinks. _Don't forget your meds again_.

He stays on the floor for a long while, before the smell starts to get to him. He flushes the toilet and pulls himself to his feet carefully. He leans against the sink for support and stares at himself in the mirror.

"You are one handsome devil," Stiles tells the red-eyed, pale-faced, skinny boy in the mirror. He inhales slowly, and presses his hand against his pounding heart. Goodness gracious. Vomiting has no right to be so physically exhausting. 

He stares at the sunken in features of his own reflection and exhales. "Handsome devil," he mutters again. He scoffs and starts brushing his teeth.

* * *

 He steadily heads back to his room and tries not to whimper every time he takes too heavy a step. He places his hand over his stomach and wanders into his room, eyes searching for the meds that should be on the floor.

He's so exhausted by this point, that he doesn't even notice the other person in the room. At least, not until he's walking into them. He lets out a surprised 'Oh', and starts to fall backwards. A strong hand reaches out and steadies him. "Derek," he gasps. "When did you get here?"

"Just now," Derek says.

"Oh," Stiles breathes, nodding. Derek's hand stays on Stiles' arm and they both just stand there. Awkwardly.

The silence drags on, and Stiles coughs nervously. "So, uh," he tries. "Did- did you want something?" Derek doesn't respond, and just stares at him.

Slowly, Derek's face starts to contort, until he's giving Stiles a scowl of disgust.

Stiles frowns in defense. "What? What's wrong?"

"You've been throwing up," Derek says.

"Oh my God, you're right. Are you psychic?" Stiles whispers.

"What? No. I can smell it on you," Derek clarifies.

"Well..." Stiles stares down at himself self-consciously. "Well, it's not my fault you have a super werewolf nose. I brushed my teeth five times, I'll have you know."

Derek continues to scowl and says, "You don't smell good. Get some rest."

Stiles tsks. "You know, I was actually planning on doing just that, until you sprouted out of my bedroom floor and gave me a heart attack. But, before I can actually go lie down, I need to dose myself numb on meds and get myself a heating pad to curl around. Unfortunately, everything I need _but_ my medicine is downstairs. So, after I spend about five minutes of mental preparation, I'll take the ten minute trek down the stairs, get the stuff, then take the fifteen minute hike back up the stairs. And _then_ I'll suffer through the fifteen minutes before the meds actually kick in and I can sleep. So, what I'm saying is, rest is a little out of my reach at this exact moment in time."

Derek watches Stiles for a long while, before muttering, "I do not understand how you can talk so much."

"I know, I think it's a condition."

Derek snorts and starts walking past Stiles towards the hallway.

"Whoah! Where are you going?" Stiles hisses.

"Getting what you need."

"Oh, no, hold up! Don't start wandering through my house! The _sheriff's_ house! Especially not in the dead of night! What if he wakes up?"

"Then I'll know."

"But, Derek-"

Derek turns on him and points to the bed. "Go lie down, and shut up."

Stiles pouts as defiantly as he can.

Derek bares his teeth. "Lie. Down."

Stiles lets out a long sigh.

Derek turns away and says, "When I come back, you better not be vertical."

"Can I be diagonal?"

Derek growls, and steps out into the hallway.

* * *

 When Derek gets back, Stiles _is_ lying down. On the floor.

"Stiles," Derek sighs.

"Oh, hey, you're back! Welcome back!", comes a muffled call from the rug.

Derek rolls his eyes. "When I said to lie down, I meant on the bed."

Stiles grumbles, "Too far."

"God, you're lazy."

"I object!"

Derek sets the heating pad and glass of water down, and moves over to Stiles. He stands over him, places his hands under Stiles' armpits, and prepares to tug. 

"Whoah!" Stiles squeaks. "Whoah, whoah, wait, wait a second, don't pull me up just yet!"

Derek stills. "Why not?"

"I gotta breathe, you gotta let me breathe first!"

"What, are you drowning?"

"No! If I move too suddenly, it really hurts my stomach! And I seriously don't feel like throwing up again!"

Derek exhales. "Stiles, I'll be gentle. Promise."

"That sounds so dirty- Oh!"

Derek pulls him up and carefully settles Stiles against his own chest. He holds onto him until he gets steady on his feet. Derek lets go, but his hands don't stray too far from Stiles' body. "There. Was that so hard?" Derek teases. Stiles pouts, and looks around Derek towards the glass of water expectantly. Derek follows Stiles' line of sight. "Did you find your medicine?" he asks.

"Yeah, it was on the floor." Stiles holds up the bottle of pills and shakes it. "What'd you think I was doing down there, anyway?"

"Being lazy."

"Well, okay, that too. Can't argue there. But, um, anyways." Stiles nods towards the water and heating pad. "Can you get me that?"

"You can't walk three feet?"

Stiles shrugs. "Don't wanna risk it."

Derek gives him a brief once over, before turning to grab the water and pad. He watches Stiles down the medicine and crosses his arms. "Next time, don't forget to take those."

"Oh, trust me," Stiles groans, settling on his bed carefully. "I don't mean to." He shuffles under his sheets slowly, but somehow manages to get tangled up anyway. Derek steps up, untangles him, and wordlessly straightens his sheets out. Stiles chuckles. "Thanks."

Derek nods, moves over to Stiles' desk, and lounges in the chair like he owns it.

Stiles stares at him from where he's laying. "Okay, not that I mind _terribly_ , but do you plan on staying here?"

Derek stares right back at him. "The train station is cold."

Stiles smirks. "Are you whining?"

"No, you're just tired."

Stiles shuffles in closer to his pillows and sighs. "And you are very right. I've had a long evening, I'm hating my body right now, and I would _love_ to get a few hours of sleep in before school."

"You're going to school?"

"Yeah, and- hey! Don't you at growl at me, mister! I'm not gonna miss any more days, I got enough work as it is. So you can just deal with it." Derek growls quietly and continuously from where he's seated, and Stiles huffs. "Whatever." He wraps his blankets tighter about himself and closes his eyes.

A few minutes pass, when Stiles remembers something. "Derek," he grumbles sleepily. Derek doesn't respond, but Stiles knows he's listening. "So, you know that whole thing about you watching me sleep in the hospital? I've thought about it, and I just realized, it was total Twilight status. You went full Edward on me, dude."

A dirty shirt is thrown at his head.

Stiles pulls it off and says, "Oh, and this reminds me. I'm missing my favorite shirt. It's the one with the three howling wolf heads on it. You know, the really ridiculous one. I don't have any proof that you're the one that took it, and I'm mainly going off my silent hope that you actually _did_ take that shirt because that would be hilarious. But I'm just saying, if you really did take it, I'd really like it back. It's my favorite."

There's no response, but he didn't really expect one. He shifts in his sheets a little and as an afterthought adds, "You don't have to sleep in that desk chair, you know. Feel free to steal some blankets. Mi casa es su casa."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is so far the longest, so it's going to take me a while to type it up. Sorry in advance! And, as always, let me know if you find any errors or misspellings! 
> 
> Oh, and, thank you so much for the awesome feedback! I personally didn't expect this fic to be as well received as it is, so thanks a ton!


	4. Wednesday, February 9th, 2011

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles goes to school, he almost dies, the potion gets explained, and then Derek goes home with him and a whole bunch of domestic stuff happens.

 

The first thing Stiles notices when he wakes up is the neatly folded shirt on his windowsill. He wanders over to it, and happily realizes it's his "three wolves howling at the moon" shirt. He picks it up and it finally registers that Derek actually _did_ wear this comically ironic shirt.

He laughs out loud with the image and unfolds it. A small note falls from the shirt and Stiles catches it before it hits the floor. He opens it and it reads;

_Don't go to practice today._

"Bitch, I do what I want," Stiles sasses at the note. He folds it back up and places it on his desk. He pulls off the shirt he's wearing, carefully so as not to disturb his injuries, and brings his wolf shirt close. He smells it and, yup, there it is. That werewolf musk. He pulls it over his head and goes with the excuse that he's wearing it because it's his favorite shirt. Not because it smells like Derek.

* * *

 

Stiles is so proud of himself for not dying during school hours. His first four periods felt like he was in a daze, and he probably was. He's not sure if he was ever called on, but he knows for sure that if he was, none of his teachers got any answers out of him. He's blaming his delirium on his meds, or on the fact that he's still healing. Maybe he really _wasn't_ ready to go back to school.

Nah, who's he kidding. He's totally fine.

..." _STILES!_ "

"What?"

"Jesus, I've said your name like 20 times already!" 

"Sorry, Scott. What were you saying?"

Scott huffs at him, and chases the food on his tray with his fork. "I was _saying_ that you shouldn't have come to school today."

"Ah, c'mon, don't be ridiculous. I'm perfect! Perfectly perfect!"

Scott looks completely unconvinced.

Stiles sighs, and mumbles, "Ye of little faith."

Scott raises an eyebrow, and that just proves that he and Derek are great for each other. Their pack should be called the pack of raising eyebrows. They could scare rival packs and other supernatural creatures away with their eyebrows alone. Make it a sport. Brow raising sport. 

"Did you even notice when Harris gave you those detentions today?"

Stiles splutters. "Wait, what?"

Scott nods. "For not responding. I tried to get your attention, but you just kept staring at your book like you were gonna eat it." He pauses. "Or throw up on it."

Stiles exhales dejectedly and hides his head in his arms.

He thinks about food for a moment, and whether or not it's appetizing, when Scott says, "It's really hard to be around you right now."

Stiles straightens up. "Are you dumping me?"

Scott chuckles despite himself, and says, "No, it's just.." He shifts uncomfortably. "You smell like Derek."

Stiles waits for the big punchline. "...And?"

"Well, it's like..." He grimaces, looking absolutely _pained_. "It's a territory thing?"

"Territory?"

"Yeah, you know. Like, scent marking."

Oh. _Oh_. Stiles frowns. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"So I'm scent marked by Derek?"

"That's what it smells like. How did that happen, anyway?"

Stiles tugs on his wolf shirt, raising his brows. "He wore my shirt."

"Wait- why was he wearing your shirt?"

"Because his was covered in blood."

Scott gawks at him. "He was covered in blood?!"

"Yeah, but it was mine- No, from last week! When I was dying last week!"

Scott falters and frowns. "You mean he never changed his clothes?"

Stiles frowns back. "Didn't you check on him?"

Scott looks down sheepishly and watches Stiles pick at the food on his tray.

Stiles can feel Scott's eyes on him, and he nervously asks, "What?"

"You don't smell good."

"Yeah, I know, I smell like Derek-"

"No, not that. I mean, that's bugging me too, but you, like... smell like pain."

Stiles blinks. "Pain has a smell?"

"Kind of, when it's strong enough... You smell sick, too."

"Well, thanks. And I was doing such a good job on ignoring my stomach today. Now I'm super aware of it. If I throw up next period, I'm blaming you."

"Stiles, maybe you shouldn't go to practice today."

"C'mon, man. I doubt he's gonna make us do tackle runs or something. It'll be fine."

* * *

 "Alright, line up, we're running tackles!"

Well, that sure figures. Stiles locks eyes with Scott and pointedly ignores the kicked-puppy look he's giving him. Stiles shrugs helplessly at him. What does Scott expect him to do? Coach has already seen him out on the field, he's not gonna let him go now. Coach probably won't even believe him if he tells hims he's injured. Probably thinks injuries are a myth or something.

The team splits, lining up on separate halves of the field. Stiles is shoved closer to the front of the line than he'd prefer, and with dread, he notes a painful pull in his stomach. Oh, boy. This is most certainly gonna be good. The line dwindles and he's not sure if the pressure in his stomach is due to nerves or the still healing wound. 

He's second in line, and by this point he's pretty sure he's going to puke on the field and on whoever's gonna have to run at him. He'd much rather avoid that amount of embarrassment, so he flags Coach Finstock down. Screw first string. He figures staying alive is a good priority to have.

"What is it, Stilinski?"

"Coach, I gotta sit out today."

"What, are you dying? Cause unless you're dying, you're doing practice."

"Well-"

"That's what I thought. Now get out there, you're up."

He was going to say that he actually _was_ dying, but fine. If coach wants a death on the field, fine. He reaches the front of the line and breathes roughly. He feels under his jersey and lets the bandages around his injured hand scrape against the gauze covering his stomach.

The kid at the front of the other line is Danny. Stiles has to tackle _Danny_. Big, buff Danny. Yep. He's definitely going to die.

The whistle shrieks.

Stiles grips his lacrosse stick tightly and runs. Man, he really wasn't thinking straight today. Why did he insist on going to practice? Does he have brain damage or something? Maybe a death wish? Death wish sounds probable. He should have known better than to let himself on the field. Stupid meds. Stupid faeries. Stupid werewolves. Stupid Danny.

Oh wait a second _SHIT DANNY-_

Danny slams into him and Stiles crashes to the ground. He gives out a choked cry and squeezes his eyes shut against the explosion of pain that erupts. He wheezes desperately, and his lungs won't work against the pain, and he can't breathe, dammit, _he can't breathe-_

He feels hands touching him and he opens his eyes. But everything is blurry and out of focus, and he can't tell whose faces he's looking at. He can hear people yelling, but he can't understand what they're saying, and it all just _hurts._

Someone pulls his helmet off and then they're wiping at either tears or sweat collected on his cheeks. A sob escapes through panicked gasps and he claws at the grass helplessly.

A face comes into view and his eyes focus just enough that he realizes it's Scott. He looks scared and he's patting down Stiles' head.

"Stiles?"

He wants to say something, anything, but his throat is seizing, and his muscles are clenching, and he can hardly take in a single breath.

Isaac's face shows up next to Scott's and he's speaking. He shares a look with Scott, and then their arms are under Stiles and they're lifting him up.

* * *

 

Scott and Isaac manage to get Stiles to the locker room without anyone else following them. Danny was the hardest to get rid of. Poor kid was blaming himself, and it took constant reassurance from both Scott and Isaac to convince him that this was all Stiles' fault.

When they get inside, they settle Stiles carefully against the wall of the showers. Stiles is still delirious with pain when Isaac places a cool hand behind his neck. Stiles blinks slowly at him, little tears trickling down his cheeks as he does so, and whimpers. There's a burning in his stomach and hand.

But then it starts to taper off and breathing becomes a little easier. His vision clears and his eyes settle fully on Isaac. "What did you do?"

Isaac takes his hand away and looks Stiles in the eye.

"He took your pain away," Scott says from a foot or so behind Isaac. "Well, some of it."

Stiles glances at Isaac's wrist, and sees the black in his veins. "You can do that?"

"We both can," Isaac says.

"Why haven't you done it before?" Stiles rasps.

"There hasn't been any need to, until now."

Stiles hums weakly in response and closes his eyes. A hand is placed on his head and it pets him gently.

"Damn, Stiles." The voice is Scott's. "You smell like death."

"Awesome."

"No, I mean, you legitimately smell like something dead. I told you not to practice today."

Stiles is about to respond, when a sudden roar rips through the locker room.

_"STILES!!"_

Both Isaac and Scott jump and move to Stiles' side, just as Derek comes stomping through the door. "Did I _not_ tell you to skip practice today?"

Stiles does not have the energy to deal with all this yelling right now.

"Hello to you, too, Derek," Stiles whispers.

"I _knew_ this was going to happen! You should have listened to what I said!" Derek's eyes are red and he's pointing his finger at Stiles accusingly. "You should have been resting! If you had, then _this_ wouldn't have happened!"

He yanks up Stiles' jersey, revealing the black stained gauze around his stomach.

Scott and Isaac scramble back, gagging. "What is that smell?" Scott chokes.

Derek takes a few calming breaths. Apparently the wound's condition is worse than he was expecting. "That's the smell of the poison and the antidote fighting over Stiles' system," Derek says.

Stiles stares at the dark, thick bandages, and swallows. "I thought you said you got all the poison."

Derek glares at the wound. "The antidote was supposed to fight off the rest," he whispers.

"Doesn't look like it's doing a very good job," Isaac mumbles.

Derek shifts uncomfortably, seemingly trying to figure out what to do. His grip tightens slightly on Stiles' shirt, and he growls, "I'll call Deaton. He'll know why it's not working."

"Wait, it's not working?" Stiles gasps.

"That's what I just said."

"Hold on, is this-" A sudden jolt pierces through his stomach, and the stains on Stiles' bandages become visibly darker. "Shit- oh, ouch. Is this- ow, is this killing me?"

"No. I don't know. There shouldn't be enough poison to be fatal, but... This is enough to be a problem," Derek says. "Take off your shirt."

"Whoah, Derek, don't you think you're being a bit forward?" Stiles mumbles tiredly.

Derek sighs, kneels, and pulls the jersey off of Stiles gently.

Which is actually pretty awesome, because Stiles had seriously been doubting whether or not he could lift his arms. "Thanks," he whispers.

Derek turns to the cowering Scott and Isaac, and frowns. "Come here," he says.

Scott frowns back. "It smells."

"Don't be a child, Scott. Come over here and help Stiles. Isaac, you too." After much hesitation, they slowly come nearer, grimaces plain on their faces.

"Geez, you guys are being ridiculous," Stiles croaks. "What does it even smell like?"

"Terrible," Scott groans.

"Wow. Descriptive." Stiles looks at Derek. "Why aren't you as bothered by it?"

Derek looks down, and starts to carefully peel off Stiles' bandages. "I am. I'm just better at sucking it up."

"Ooh, burn," Stiles croons weakly. The bandages are removed completely, revealing Stiles' blood and poison smeared stomach.

Derek scowls at the wound and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small jar with the same milky stuff as before.

"Oh, God," Stiles whimpers. "Not again."

Derek glances at Stiles, before saying, "Scott, take his hand."

Scott comes closer, and with careful fingers takes Stiles' injured hand. Stiles wraps his fingers around Scott's, and can't help when he starts shaking. "I don't wanna do this again."

Derek dips his thumb and index finger into the jar, and grunts, "It'll be okay. This should help."

"Oh my God!" Stiles squeaks. "That's what you said last time!"

Derek hands the jar to Scott and looks back at Stiles. "Last time you were dying. Now you're not." He places his hand on Stiles' stomach, and Stiles jumps. "Don't worry. My claws won't pierce your skin."

He sets the claw of his thumb over the wound and presses down. He drags his thumb across the line of dried poison and scabbed blood, scraping gently as he goes. There's a slight hissing sound, and Stiles realizes it's the antidote turning the poison to steam.

"What are you doing?" Stiles mumbles.

"Cleaning it," says Derek.

Scott's fingers, now coated in the antidote, start scraping across Stiles' hand as well. Stiles expects it to burn like it did last time, but it just feels... warm. 

"What's this strange concoction made out of?" Stiles asks.

"A few different things. I don't have the whole list, but the main ingredient is the saliva of an alpha werewolf, because of its natural healing qualities," Derek says.

"What? You're rubbing your spit all over me?"

"No. It's not mine."

"Then whose is it?"

Derek hesitates, and focuses on spreading the antidote across the wound. After a long while, he replies, "My father's."

Well. Stiles doesn't really know what to say to that. He's kind of humbled, actually, knowing Derek's dad is indirectly saving his life.

"This isn't the first time faeries have been to Beacon Hills," Derek adds. "My family has dealt with them before. And their poison."

Stiles stares at him and winces when Derek presses down too hard. "Why do they come here?" he asks.

"Territory," Derek replies. "When I was a kid, they found Beacon Hills and decided they wanted it. There was a dispute between them and my family. We won and they've stayed away. Until now." He pauses, and glances up at Stiles. "This is going to hurt." Derek nods at Isaac, and Isaac places his hand on Stiles' head.

Derek swipes at some stray blood around the wound, before digging his thumb into where the poison is thickest. Stiles yelps out of surprise, and almost immediately Isaac is using his magic werewolf powers to lessen the pain.

"You little shit!" Stiles squawks. "You said you wouldn't pierce the skin!"

"I know, I'm sorry, but this is just to be safe."

Stiles is having difficulty breathing through the pain, but it does help a little (a lot) that Isaac is there.

"Why did they come back?" Scott pipes in.

Derek studies Scott, seemingly having forgotten he was there, before saying, "Because my family's gone."

"Oh. Well, we took them all out, right? The faeries? So they won't come back?" Scott mumbles hopefully.

Derek hesitates, his eyes flicking to Stiles briefly, with a hint of... distrust? Was that distrust? "Yeah. We got them." Okay, that was a lie. Definitely distrust, then. 

Derek pulls his hands away eventually, after wiping gently at what blood and poison was left on Stiles' skin. "Alright. I think you'll be good for now."

"So reassuring," Stiles huffs, eyes closing.

With his thumb, Isaac wipes away some sweat that had gathered on Stiles' forehead, before pulling away and stepping back. Derek stands and watches Scott get Stiles on his feet.

"Geez, guys, don't help or anything," Stiles frowns, before patting Scott on the back. "Thanks, Scott. I love you, man."

Scott nods. "Love you, too."

"No, seriously. Do you want to kiss?"

Scott chuckles and steers Stiles towards his locker. "Go take your medicine, Stiles."

" _You_ take your medicine," he grumbles.

After downing his required medication, Stiles turns back to the werewolves in the room and waves tiredly. "Alright, you goons, I'm going home. Thanks, and see you later. Though I probably _won't_ be seeing you at school tomorrow." He steps toward his bag, hand stretched to take it, when Derek grabs it. Stiles scowls and points at Derek. "That's my stuff!"

"Yeah."

"What are you doing with my stuff?"

Derek stares at him like it's obvious. "Carrying it." He starts walking towards the door and turns back around when Stiles doesn't follow. "I'm taking you home. Come on."

"Why?"

"Because I don't trust you behind the wheel of a car."

"You don't trust me ever!"

"I know. Let's go."

Stiles huffs indignantly and turns to Scott. Scott fidgets, before pointing in a random direction. "Um. I gotta get back to practice. So, Isaac and I are just gonna..." He nods at Isaac and they start inching towards the door.

Stiles grabs Scott as he's passing and hisses in his ear. "You're gonna leave me alone with Derek? You're just gonna ditch me?"

"Well, I'm sorry man, but I gotta get back to the field." Scott pouts. "And plus, Isaac and I have already made plans" - _Oh, of course_ \- "to hang out later, so I won't be able to keep an eye on you. Besides, Derek's done a pretty good job of keeping you alive so far. But if you do die, I'll be sure to avenge you!" Scott gives Stiles a quick grin, before he and Isaac escape from the locker room. Wow. What a great friend. 

"You butthole!" Stiles calls after him.

* * *

 The car ride to Stiles' house wasn't _incredibly_ awkward- Well. Okay, maybe it was. But they finally got to the Stilinski house and now Stiles can breathe easy again. Or at least, as easily as he can- who's he kidding, it's near impossible to breathe easy when you're high on meds and your blood is laced with faery poison. But now he's home and he can finally rest without the ever-persistent, ever-watchful eye of Derek Hale. Stiles can only stand to be in such close proximity with him for so long. Really, the guy gives him the jibblies. And not the good kind of jibblies.

The kind of jibblies where you get butterflies in your stomach and can feel your cheeks burn and your heart betrays you every time you look at him, or he looks at you, or every time you lock eyes- Or wait. Shit. That's not jibblies. That's a crush.

... _Shit_.

Derek is giving Stiles a strange look, at Stiles realizes he's just been _staring_ at Derek since they reached his house. Ah, shoot, he should probably stop staring now.

With a dismissive cough, Stiles starts to get out of the car and moves to grab his bag. But then Derek is grabbing Stiles' stuff again and is walking towards the house. Stiles scoffs at him, and says, "And where do you think you're going?"

"Inside."

Oh. Simple as that. Wait, no, that is not simple! Stiles chases Derek inside (chase as in hobble weakly), yelping, "But _why_?"

"Because if I leave you alone, then you'll probably choke on your own vomit."

Well, that is true.

"I can handle myself!" Stiles says instead.

Derek gives him a look that screams _No. You can't._

Stiles lets out a long suffering sigh, and closes the door behind himself. "You know you can't stay here long. My dad'll be home soon, and you don't wanna be seen home alone with the sheriff's underage son. ...Wait, a second. What if some of my neighbors saw you? Oh my God! They probably saw me with you! They'll totally tell my dad! He's going to skin us alive! I don't know what for, exactly, probably just because we're in the same room together! I mean, you're kind of a criminal, and I'm his _SON_. It's basically a given that I'm gonna do something that'll make him want to kill me. And you're _definitely_ not helping my chances of surviving my father's wrath, so I suggest you leave, like, _today_. Preferably right now, because, like I said, my dad is already on his way-"

His phone starts ringing and he cuts himself off to scramble through his pockets. The caller ID alerts him it's his dad, and he quickly presses the phone to his ear. "Hey, pop!"

"Hey, Stiles. How are you feeling?"

Stiles unconsciously places his hand over his abdomen, his thumb stroking over the bandages just under his shirt.

"Oh, you know. Peachy."

"How was school?"

"Dreadful."

"So basically, same as always?"

Stiles smiles. "Exactly."

"I was just calling to let you know I'll be working late tonight."

"What?"

"I'm sorry, kiddo. I don't want to leave you alone, especially not while you're healing, but I gotta work a little extra."

"That's okay, dad. I get it. You gotta make up for the time you spent with me in the hospital, right?" Guilt snakes a slimy grip around his heart and he bites his lip.

"Right. I'm sorry I won't be home any time soon. Will you be able to handle dinner on your own?"

"Yeah, I'll manage."

"Alright. I'll see you later tonight, if you don't fall asleep before I get home."

"Okay, dad."

"I love you, Stiles."

"Love you too. Bye."

He stares down at his phone for a while and decides that _that_ just figures. He looks up and Derek is watching him with a raised brow.

"So, dinner then?" Derek mutters, cocky bastard with his stupid werewolf hearing.

"I hate your stupid werewolf hearing," Stiles tells him. Derek smiles (cocky bastard!) and goes into the kitchen. Stiles follows him in and leans on the counter heavily, the day's physical exhaustion starting to settle in his bones. All of him aches and it's honestly really terrible, so he rests his head on the counter and groans.

"Go lie down."

Stiles blinks blearily up at Derek, who's fishing out a large pot. Derek fills it with water and sets it on the stove to boil. Stiles watches him before mumbling, "What are you making?"

Derek glances at him and says, "Soup."

Stiles stands up a little straighter, folding his arms on the counter to lean on. "Can I make a request?"

"If it's anything other than soup, I'm gonna say no. I don't trust your stomach with food right now." He looks at Stiles purposefully, and says, "And I know you don't either. You didn't eat lunch today."

Stiles stares at him, open-mouthed. "Why do you _know_ that?"

Derek taps his nose as way of explanation (stupid werewolf smelling), and turns back to the stove. "What's your request, Stiles?"

Stiles shifts by the counter for a moment, before turning and heading towards the hall. He can feel Derek watching him, but he tries to ignore it and not let it get to him, regardless of the heat tinging his cheeks. If he acts like they don't exist, then these crush-jibblies will go away. He reaches the hall closet and starts searching through some of the old boxes on the top shelf. He eventually pulls back with a small, dusty book in hand. He runs his fingers over it reverently, his eyes lingering over the words 'Mom's Recipes' scrawled lovingly on the front.

Stiles turns back around and heads towards the kitchen, stopping in the kitchen doorway where Derek is standing.

Stiles holds the book out to Derek and nods. "It's the recipe called 'Magic Soup'." The recipe of course never contained any real magic, but the soup was named what it was because it always made Stiles feel better. 'Like magic!', he and his mom would say.

Derek takes the book carefully and the way he handles it reminds Stiles of holding a withering flower. Derek turns the pages gently and the look on his face is so... tender. It makes Stiles' heart tighten, and he can't help but wonder if Derek's mom ever had a book of recipes of her own. His mind starts to wander and he wonders if their moms ever knew each other. If his mom was ever friends with Derek's, or even if their moms were as good of friends as she was with Scott's mom. He wonders what it would've been like to grow up knowing Derek the way he knows Scott, if Derek would have been protective of him the way Scott is. If Derek would have put up with him when they were kids. If they would have been friends.

Derek's eyes snap up to look at him, and Stiles jumps automatically. "Do we have everything we need to make it?" Derek asks him.

Stiles swallows roughly, and rasps, "Uh, we- we should."

Derek nods, and looks back down at the book, reading further. Without looking up, he places his hand on Stiles' shoulder. "Go lie down, Stiles," he says, shoving gently.

Stiles complies easily and squeaks out, "Okay."

He wanders over to his couch and lays himself down, listening intently to Derek in his kitchen. He hears him open and close cupboards and the fridge, and Stiles can hear him scramble with some of the pans on the lower shelf.

"The cutting boards are in the cabinet to the left of the sink," Stiles calls, before pulling off his shoes and socks, and settling further into the couch cushions. He figures he might as well take a nap, seeing as how he has his own personal watch dog here to take care of him.

So, he closes his eyes.

* * *

 "Stiles! Stiles, _god damnit_ , wake up!"

His eyes fly open and he realizes he's gasping for breath, his throat tight and sore. He pulls in lungfuls desperately, but it's not enough, and he's choking, he's shaking, there are tears coating his cheeks, and he _can't stop shaking_ -

"Stiles, breathe! Look at me, breathe!"

In his haze of panic, Stiles' hands seek out Derek, who is hovering over him like a frightened shadow. Stiles grasps Derek's biceps, his fingers digging into Derek's shirt frantically, and tugs. "Derek- Derek-!!" He pulls Derek towards himself and presses his face into Derek's collarbone, in hopes that it will somehow ground him.

Derek runs his hand over Stiles' head, his hand settling on Stiles' neck. "Stiles, look at me. You need to breathe. C'mon, breathe." Derek takes Stiles' hand and places it over his own chest, Stiles' fingers spreading over Derek's expanding ribs. "Feel me breathe. Come on, Stiles, breathe with me." He takes in deep breaths, and continues doing so until Stiles' breaths start to match his. "That's right. Just keep breathing, Stiles. In, out."

It takes Stiles a few moments for his brain to clear, and once it does, it finally registers for him how strange the whole situation is. Derek is being really nice and soothing. Which is something that Stiles never would have associated with Derek. Because, soothing, seriously? Stiles would be finding it hilarious that Derek is helping him through a panic attack, except he's more concerned about what in the _world_ triggered his attack in the first place.

"What- happened?" he chokes between gasps, furtively ignoring the tears still on his cheeks.

Derek leans back slightly, and keeps his eyes fixed on Stiles as he pulls his hands away. "You had a nightmare."

He did? Huh. Stiles tries to remember what he dreamed about, but nothing comes back except for a deep, hollow feeling.

Stiles pauses, thinking. "Did I say anything? In my sleep?" he asks.

Derek gives a momentary kicked puppy look, which is really really weird because that kind of look should be reserved for Scott only. Derek looks away, before muttering, "No."

Which is obviously a lie. Does Derek even realize how bad he is at lying? And nobody even ever calls him out on it, which is ridiculous, unless... they actually can't tell when he's lying.

Stiles is about to inform him that he's an awful liar, when he takes in a deep inhale and his nostrils are filled with the scent of his mother's cooking. He pales, and his mind is suddenly flooded with countless images and memories, of her and his dad kissing in the hall after tucking him to bed, of her in a paint-coated apron, her kneeling in the garden, her getting out the first aid kit after he scrapes his knee, just so many images of her her _her_ -

And then he remembers his dream. His subconscious had pulled up every memory of her and played it all in his head, and then images of her in the hospital start forcing their way through and he can't see anything but her on that bed, with all those monitors and all those tubes going into her, and she was so small, and she was so cold- and she wasn't breathing-

Stiles shoots up into a sitting position and pushes Derek away, using all of his strength to propel himself towards the bathroom, trying his hardest to not let the pain in his stomach affect him before he reaches the toilet.

He falls to his knees and pukes into the white porcelain (it's so cold, and so white, just like she was-). He grips the toilet tightly, his injured hand trembling violently against it. The tears come back full force, mixing with the sweat coating his face. The heaving doesn't last long, but it's incredibly painful and it leaves him feeling empty.

When it finally stops, he shudders against the seat and whimpers. Derek places a nervous hand on Stiles' head, and Stiles slumps, closing his eyes. He should've expected a panic attack to go with that soup recipe. The last time that smell was in the house, it was the day before mom was moved to the hospital for an indefinite amount of time. (She ended up staying there for four weeks before she was gone. He remembers that she made the soup because he got sick, and that it was the last thing she ever left them. They ended up throwing away the leftovers.) 

He can feel Derek's eyes on him and he allows himself to be ashamed. Opting to maintain a shred of dignity, however, he pulls himself up and flushes the toilet.

Stiles blinks at Derek in the mirror. "Can you step out for a moment?" he asks shakily, before pointing at his own bared teeth. "Gotta brush, you know?"

Derek nods gruffly, closing the door behind him.

Stiles stares at the door after it closes and sighs, resting his head against the mirror. "Shit," he breathes, the pain from the heaving still present in his abdomen. It's been years since he had a panic attack that bad, and an unwanted tendril of shame and self-hate curls around his gut. Of all the people to have seen him at his worst, it had to be Derek. Because that's just how his life works.

"Shit."

* * *

 After brushing his teeth furiously several times, Stiles finally builds up the courage to step out of the bathroom. When he does, he keeps his eyes trained on his bare feet and softly closes the door behind himself. He leans against the wall and takes in deep breaths, the scent of the soup filling his lungs. He can hear Derek washing dishes in the kitchen (which is nice of him, by the way), but a small part of him is convinced that it's not Derek, and it's actually his mom cleaning up after dinner.

The thought starts making him nauseous again, so he pushes away from the wall and goes into the kitchen.

Derek's back is turned to him when he enters, but as soon as Stiles' foot hits the tile, Derek is facing him. 

"Hey," Stiles mumbles weakly.

Derek nods at him. "Are you still hungry?"

Stiles bites his lip and contemplates the prospect of eating one of his mother's dishes again. It frightens him for some unidentifiable reason, and the nausea still seems to have a tight hold on him. But this is her magic soup recipe, and no matter what he was sick with or how badly, it always made him feel better. He shrugs. "Sure, why not?"

Derek looks him up and down, apparently deciding for himself whether or not Stiles is up for food. Stiles shuffles towards the table and sits down, and Derek takes it as a sort of cue and moves to get Stiles a bowl.

When Derek places the soup in front of Stiles, Stiles leans in close and inhales. It smells perfect and Stiles can feel the tears tickling at his eyelids. Sniffling, he grabs his spoon and takes a bite.

His sense of smell definitely did not deceive him. The soup was perfect. Stiles looks up at Derek, eyes wide, and Derek frowns back.

"Is it alright?" Derek asks.

"It's perfect," he answers breathlessly.

Derek makes a weird face and turns around, and Stiles wonders if it's to hide a blush. Stiles tries to imagine Derek blushing, and what image comes up elicits a small smile. Stiles chuckles quietly and the room loses what tension it had been carrying. Stiles eats in comfortable silence, and Derek washes dishes.

* * *

Stiles drops the empty bowl into the sink and stretches next to Derek to open the window right above the sink.

Derek raises his eyebrow and glances at Stiles. "I could have opened that," he says.

"Yeah, well," Stiles mutters, "I like to retain some masculinity in my own household. Opening windows is masculine, y'know?"

Derek snorts and watches Stiles turn on the fan. He stares at him questioningly and Stiles shrugs. "I want the smell to be out of the house before my dad gets home."

Derek nods and dries the last of the dishes.

"Whoah, dude." Stiles wanders over and stares as Derek puts away the newly cleaned silverware. "Did you just hand-wash all my dirty dishes?" Derek stares back and Stiles cocks his head, frowning. "You do know we own something called a _dishwasher_ , right?"

Derek rolls his eyes and continues putting away dried dishes.

"Not that I'm not grateful," Stiles adds, turning out of the kitchen.

"Then what are you?" Derek asks.

"Bored," Stiles calls from the living room.

Derek closes the last cupboard, when Stiles comes back into the kitchen.

"Hey." Stiles leans against the doorway expectantly. "Wanna watch 'Lars and the Real Girl'? Like we promised?"

" _You_ promised."

"Yeah, and? Wanna watch it or not?"

Derek sighs and turns to Stiles. "Sure."

"Sweet," Stiles chirps, smacking his palm on the wall on his way out, as way of inviting Derek into the next room. When Derek walks in, Stiles is settling himself on the couch with his laptop in hand. "Okay, so, I actually don't have this movie on DVD, so we're gonna have to watch it on Netflix. Hope you don't have a problem with proximity." Stiles presses the power button and turns to Derek. "Can I ask you something real quick?"

Derek just stares.

"Alright, I'm gonna take that as a yes. Anyways, I was just wondering. When was the last time you saw a movie?"

Derek just stares harder.

When he finally does respond, what he says is, "Your computer's not turning on."

"What?" Stiles looks back and the computer is just sitting there, dead and unresponsive. "Aw, man," Stiles groans. "It's the battery. It does this every once in a while. We'll have to take it out and restart it."

Stiles gets to his feet, albeit slowly, and carries his laptop to the kitchen table. There, he flips it over and starts tugging at the battery. "Shit," he grunts. "It's jammed." He looks around himself, glancing briefly at Derek in the doorway, before approaching the silverware drawer. "Okay, let's see..." Stiles sifts through the drawer for a bit, before stepping back with a steak knife in hand. "Perfect!"

Derek shifts uneasily where he stands and grumbles, "What are you going to do with that?"

"Relax, I'm a trained professional."

"I highly doubt that."

"Why does nobody ever believe me when I say things?" Stiles mutters. He wedges the tip of the knife under the battery and presses. Nothing budges. "Okay, hold on..." He puts his weight into it, his palm dug into the handle, when the battery pops out. Stiles pulls back before he can stab either himself or the computer with the knife, and chuckles. "There we go!" He holds the knife up triumphantly and says, "Man, the things knives can do. Y'know, this piece of silverware ought to be promoted to the status of 'tool'." Stiles nods and starts walking towards the garage.

Derek follows him and mumbles, "My claws could have done the same job just fine."

"Don't start getting jealous, Derek, it's just a knife. And besides, I don't wanna have to always depend on your werewolf prowess. I've gotta learn to be independent... and resourceful..." Stiles starts to trail off and slowly comes to a stop. He leans his hand against the wall for support, his other hand coming up to hover over his stomach.

Derek walks around to Stiles' front, and frowns down at him. "What's wrong?"

Stiles shakes his head, wincing. "Nothing."

"Is it your stomach?"

"Derek, it's fine."

"Stiles."

"Look, I'm alright. I just got a bit dizzy." He looks up at Derek and moves past him, opening the door to his garage. "Excuse me."

"Stiles, if you're in pain-"

"I said I'm fine," Stiles sighs, stepping into the garage. He turns to Derek and says, "If I feel like it's a serious problem, then I'll tell you. But it was just a small twinge." He holds the knife up, and turns back around. "Now, if you don't mind, I gotta upgrade the title of this utensil."

He stops in front of the tool table and raises the knife. "You are now promoted to the status of 'tool'," he tells the piece of silverware, before setting it down gently on the table. He turns back to Derek and nods. "Alright. Let's go watch that movie."

Stiles passes out halfway through 'Lars and the Real Girl', and by the time he wakes up, his dad is home, and Derek is gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fourth chapter! Whoo! Sorry it took me so long to type this one up. But it was just way longer than the others. And, I'm sorry to say, 5th chapter is going to take even longer to get up. Mainly because I'm in the middle of writing it. I'll try to finish it soon, but school is coming up, so we'll see how that goes!


	5. Thursday, February 10th, 2011

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles stays home from school, and his wound gets even worse.

For the first time in more than a week, Stiles wakes up from a full night's sleep. He blinks his eyes open lazily and glances at his clock. He has about 10 minutes before school starts. _Screw it_ , he thinks. After yesterday's excitement and his current physical health, he may as well just stay home. He can try school again tomorrow. 

He lays in his bed and watches as the time passes on his clock. No one will blame him for missing just _one_ day of school. Hopefully. Well, Harris might. Damn Harris and his damn detentions that still need to be served. Stiles sighs and rolls on his side. He notices a pile of blankets on the floor that he doesn't remember throwing there and stares at it. He sees that the pile has a few strands of ruffled black hair poking out of it, and he finally realizes that the blankets are draped over a Derek shaped lump.

"Derek? Derek, why are you..." Stiles starts to slowly get out of his bed, his blankets tangling around him, when he hears his dad's feet coming down the hall. In a panic, Stiles scrambles onto his floor, his tangled sheets in tow, and throws his blanket over Derek's form. He falls on top of the werewolf and comforters in the process.

His dad opens the door, and is met with the sight of his son sprawled on a nest of blankets in the corner. Mr. Stilinski furrows his brows and tilts his head towards Stiles, prompting him to explain.

Stiles stares back, eyes wide and mouth agape, and he can't help but feel like they've gone through this before. "I fell out of bed," he finally says. 

"Uh-huh," his dad drawls. "You fell out of bed and wound up on the other side of the room."

Stiles looks around himself, before replying, "I don't know how it happened either."

The sheriff sighs and hangs his head, and Stiles can hear him mutter, "Why do I even ask?"

Under the blankets, Derek starts to shift, and Stiles presses back against him in an attempt to get Derek to hold still.

"But I came up here," his dad continues, "to see whether or not you were still going to school. Do you feel up for it?"

Stiles takes a deep sigh, before shaking his head lightly. "Nah, I don't think I can do it today. Yesterday was too brutal."

His dad nods in understanding and leans up. "Alright, it's fine with me if you stay home. Just so long as you stay out of trouble."

Stiles huffs and holds his palms up defensively. "Aw, c'mon dad, you know me!"

His dad turns around, saying, "I sure do, and that's why I'm warning you. I'm heading out, I'll be back later."

 "Alright, dad, stay safe!" Stiles calls after him. Stiles waits to hear the front door close before getting off of Derek. "What are you doing here?" he shouts.

Derek shimmies out of the blankets calmly, and once he's out he gives Stiles an exasperated look. "You said I could stay here. Remember?"

Stiles gapes back, before stammering out, "Well- Yeah- But- I meant when I was at the hospital."

"Fine. Then I'll leave," Derek says, standing up.

For a reason beyond him, Stiles reaches out and grabs Derek's wrist. "Wait-"

It seems to be beyond Derek as well, if his tense posture and baffled expression are anything to go by.

"Wait," Stiles continues, "just... You don't have to leave. I mean, if you don't want to." He trails off and lets go of Derek's wrist. "Just," he looks up at him, "warn me next time you plan on staying, alright? Wouldn't want my dad to come across you accidentally."

Derek watches Stiles for a moment, before leaning down to pick up the blankets. "I don't let myself get caught so easy."

Against his better judgement, Stiles mumbles back, "Coulda fooled me, what with how many times Scott and I have had to save your ass."

Derek makes a sort of annoyed pouty frown at Stiles' remark and starts to turn out of the room with a disgruntled growl. 

"Oh, wait a second! C'mon, Derek, I didn't mean it-" Stiles tries to scramble after him and completely forgets about his still healing injuries. At least until he takes a few jostling steps towards Derek and is winded by the sudden sharp pain that explodes through his abdomen. His vision is shrouded in black spots and distantly he registers himself making a strangled whimper.

For a few moments, the only thing Stiles is aware of is pain. Eventually, however, the cloud of agony starts to taper away. When he's able to breathe again, he blinks his eyes clear of unshed tears and realizes he's being supported by Derek's strong arms.

"Shit, Stiles," Derek breathes into his short hair.

"Oh, please, don't mind me," Stiles wheezes from his spot on Derek's shoulder. "I'm getting used to this."

"What? Does this happen every time you stand up?"

Well actually Stiles meant he was getting used to being held (up) by Derek. But considering what Derek said, it would seem this really does happen every time he moves suddenly. "Mostly," he says instead.

"Why haven't you said anything?"

"Well, I mean, you've been around pretty much every time it's happened, so I haven't had to say anything."

Derek huffs and slowly untangles himself from Stiles' limp form, until only their arms are touching. "Can you walk on your own?" he asks.

Stiles puts all of his weight back on his own feet and manages to sway in place for only a moment. "Yeah- yeah, I think so."

"Good." Derek lets go and walks out of the room. "Come on," he says.

"Where are we going?" Stiles calls, following after him.

"Deaton's. He'll know why the antidote isn't having much of an effect on the poison," he says from the living room. How did he get there so fast? Stiles can hear Derek reaching the front door, and goddamnit if he doesn't hate werewolf speed.

"Hold on!" he shouts weakly from the top of the stairs, before he starts descending them. "What do you mean the antidote's not working-" It turns out that he really wasn't ready to support his own weight. His legs go limp beneath him, and he scrabbles for the rail helplessly, but to no avail. He tumbles down the stairs and as he falls he feels a brief sense of shame knowing Derek will witness him falling down a flight of stairs. All self preservation flies out the window the moment he hits the bottom, however. He lets out an embarrassingly high pitched yelp, but that's the least of his concerns. His arms are pinned under his stomach, and he can feel a warm liquid seeping onto them through his shirt. Which means the wound must have reopened. And that theory would definitely explain the pain.

Derek is next to him in a second and is carefully placing his hands on Stiles' back. "Stiles? Stiles, are you alright?"

Stiles shakes his head in a negative on the floor. His muscles are clenched tight, and he's afraid that the amount of tension will bruise his ribs.

"Can you move?"

He shakes his head again, this time grinding out, "No."

Derek wraps his arms around Stiles' body and starts to pull up. "Alright, I'm gonna carry you," he warns. "I'm sorry if I hurt you."

 He lifts Stiles up onto his shoulder, wrapping his arms tight about the boy in an attempt to keep him perfectly still. Stiles whimpers into Derek's neck, and he can feel blood seeping from his own shirt onto Derek's. "Derek," he groans.

"We'll get to Deaton's soon," Derek promises. 

He gets them out of the house and rushes to his Camaro, while still being careful not to jostle Stiles too much. Derek places Stiles in the passenger seat and there's an uncomfortable moment of their shirts sticking together from all the blood. Derek straightens up enough that their shirts unstick from each other, and it registers for Stiles that he's lost enough blood to coat _both_ of their chests. The door closes and he can feel himself begin to hyperventilate. Stiles notes that Derek has sat down in the driver's seat and is patting his leg. "Stiles, calm down. You're going to be alright. Come on, breathe."

Stiles nods in compliance and starts taking in strained breaths.

"That's right, keep that up," Derek mutters, starting up the car.

They pull out onto the road and Stiles continues to gasp through clenched teeth.

The pain in his stomach is coming through in waves, and with each ripple of agony more black blood seeps onto his hands. Pulling at his shirt and his bandages, he chances a look at the open wound on his abdomen, and sees that the stitches have mostly come undone. The sight makes him nauseous. He can feel sweat collecting on his brow, and realizes that his injured hand has begun to spasm. He stares at it and feels the sudden urge to cry when the same black liquid starts to flow between the stitches on his palm. 

"Derek", he moans.

"We're almost there."

"Derek, something's not right."

"No, really? I never would have guessed," Derek bites back.

Stiles clenches his eyes shut, in both pain and frustration, and croaks, "I can feel everything."

Derek glances at him then. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Stiles says, swallowing back a bit of bile, "that it's not numbing my system. I can feel _everything_."

Derek's brows furrow and Stiles tries to elaborate. "When I first got attacked, their poison numbed the wounds and the surrounding body parts. I couldn't feel that I was dying. But right now, I _can_. And it freaking _sucks_." A small tear rolls down his cheek, and Derek stares at it in slight horror. "If I die-"

"You're not going to die," Derek snaps, and Stiles can't help but notice how the car speeds up. 

"Derek, if I don't make it-"

"Shut up."

"-if you can't save me-"

"I said shut up."

"Derek, promise me-"

"Stiles, shut up!"

"-don't blame yourself!"

The words lay heavy in thick silence, and Derek's hands clench around the steering wheel slowly. Derek pointedly keeps his eyes to the windshield, and Stiles pointedly keeps his eyes on Derek. He tries to ignore the burning in his stomach and focus on Derek's face.

Because this is important. Derek has to hear this.

"If I die, it won't be your fault. Don't you dare start thinking you're responsible. It's not possible to save everyone. And believe me, I wish it was. You can't blame yourself for everything," Stiles whispers.

Derek doesn't look at him.

Stiles continues to watch, hoping that if he really does die, Derek doesn't destroy himself with guilt like he does with every dead person. The blood is collecting on his hands and he stares at the blood stains on Derek's chest. Distantly he feels bad for ruining another one of Derek's shirts. "Derek?" he mutters.

Derek wrings his hands around the steering wheel and Stiles watches him open his lips haltingly, obviously thinking over his next words with immense care. Unfortunately, he's cut off by Stiles' condition deciding to take that moment to worsen. The muscles in Stiles' abdomen tighten, and the blood flow increases considerably. He lets out a strangled yelp, his eyes shutting tight against the incredible urge to puke, his back arching away from his seat. Derek looks at him, finally, but there's panic in his eyes. "Stiles!"

Stiles curls up in hopes that the action will somehow alleviate the pain, if even a little. He groans into his knees, hissing through clenched teeth, "Deaton!"

The car stops abruptly and Stiles can feel the axis of the car shift as Derek gets out. The door next to him swings open and Derek's hands start to tug at his shoulders. "C'mon, Stiles, we're here."

"I can't get up," Stiles whimpers.

Derek doesn't miss a beat and is immediately lifting Stiles up, his arms supporting Stiles' back and under his knees. Stiles' head lolls back onto Derek's bicep, lacking the energy to hold it up on his own. He faces the sky and watches through blurred eyes as the clouds get blocked off by the clinic's ceiling. The calls of the numerous cats and dogs of the clinic swarm his ears, and Stiles hopes Deaton's not busy with a customer. He sobs into Derek's sleeve, his abdomen wracking with spasms. Derek's hold tightens.

"Deaton!" Derek calls. Stiles can hear panic in his voice. He glances up, and through the haze clouding over his eyes, he focuses on Derek's face. He looks pained. Stiles tugs on Derek's shirt with weak fingers, and gasps out his name. Derek whines in response, but the sound was so soft and quiet that Stiles wonders if he imagined it.

Deaton walks into the room then and instantly halts in his tracks. Stiles can hardly imagine what sort of gruesome picture they make. But Deaton isn't stilled by his shock for long and tells Derek, "Put him on the table." 

Derek complies and Stiles refrains from flinching away from the cold metal of the table. He knows that if he did, the movement would pull on his injuries and cause him even more pain.

"Take off his shirt," Deaton orders, and Derek hesitates. "Derek, we have to get his shirt off. I need to see where all this blood is coming from."

Derek nods stiffly and with gentle hands peels the shirt away from Stiles' body, careful not to move him too much.

Stiles pants and he can feel warm liquid trickling down his sides.

Deaton roams his eyes over Stiles' abdomen, and says, "What happened?"

"Faeries," Derek croaks.

Deaton turns away from them and starts going through his cabinets. "When did this happen?" he asks.

"Last Tuesday."

"Tuesday?" Deaton stands up, startled. He steps close, several jars in hand. "How have you kept him alive until now?"

Derek pulls out the antidote from his pocket, handing it to Deaton.

Deaton turns it over in his hands, recognizing it. "Is this..?"

"From when I was a kid," Derek says.

Deaton walks over to Stiles and examines his wound. He prods around it gently, and Stiles makes a weak sort of squeaking noise. "Sorry," Deaton says, glancing at him. 

"S'fine," Stiles chokes. 

Deaton runs his gloved fingers over Stiles' wound and Stiles struggles against the sobs he can feel building in his throat. He grips his fingers around the sides of the cold table.

"Why isn't it working?" Derek mutters from the corner.

"The antidote?" Deaton calls.

Derek nods.

Deaton looks closer at Stiles' wound and pushes it open gently. Stiles whimpers, and he can hear Deaton apologizing.

"It looks like..," Deaton begins, frowning. "It looks like that antidote was out of date."

"What, you mean it expired?"

"In a way," Deaton replies.

Derek frowns and steps closer. "What does that mean?" Deaton doesn't reply right away and Derek growls. "Deaton, _what does that mean_?"

Deaton stands up and looks at Derek. "He needs the saliva of an Alpha."

"That's what we gave him," Derek snarls. "That potion has my father's saliva."

"That's not what I mean," Deaton says. "It can't be the saliva of just _any_ Alpha. It has to be _his_ Alpha."

Stiles frowns, listening. He's not a werewolf. He doesn't have an Alpha. He can see Derek's frown darkening, and for a moment they lock eyes. 

"Derek," Deaton continues, "your father was never Stiles' Alpha. _You_ are his Alpha."

But Stiles isn't a werewolf! He doesn't _have_ an Alpha. He tells them as much. Deaton turns to respond, but Derek speaks first.

"No," he says, looking down. He blinks at the floor and speaks like he can't believe he's admitting to this. "You are pack, Stiles," he says quietly.

"Since when?"

"You've always been pack."

The revelation warms Stiles' heart, and had it not been for the fact that he was dying, he'd totally be making a big deal about this.

"Well, that's great," he grits out, and means it. "So you're gonna heal me now, right? You've just gotta spit into a jar?"

"It's not that easy," Deaton says. "We don't have enough time."

"What?"

"By the time we finish making a replica of the antidote, you'll be dead."

Stiles' eyes latch onto Derek's fists and he watches as claws grow. He glances at Derek's face and he looks so incredibly _concerned_. "Then what do we do?" Stiles rasps, turning to Deaton.

"We'll have to apply the ingredients directly," Deaton says. "It will be faster, and much more potent. But it will also be much more painful. It won't be possible for us to use any anesthetic, because I'm afraid it could make things worse. There will be enough things coursing through your system as it is."

Another tremor of pain pulses through Stiles' abdomen, and he can feel sweat rolling from his body in cold beads. With a shaking voice, he says, "Do it anyway."

Deaton glances at Derek, as though for confirmation, before nodding at Stiles. "Alright." Deaton grabs the jars he had been holding earlier and starts taking the tops off of them. He pours varying quantities of each jar's contents onto a tray and approaches Stiles.

"What are those?" Stiles asks, hoping fear isn't obvious in his voice.

"Plants," Deaton says. "Cedar, birch, white sage... A few others. I can give you the full list later." He pauses. "If this works."

Stiles swallows back tears and wonders how bad the herbs will burn.

"Are you ready?" Deaton asks.

Stiles closes his eyes and takes as steadying a breath as he can manage, before nodding. Deaton rubs a soothing hand on his shoulder and presses the first herbs into Stiles' wound.

The herbs starts to fizzle and boil, the hissing is just barely audible beneath Stiles' abrupt screaming. It feels like somebody placed burning coals into his gut and it's unlike anything he's ever felt. It's incomparable to what he experienced that first night. He grips the table tight, to the point it feels like his knuckles will tear through his skin. He can feel Deaton kneading multiple leaves and stems into his flesh, and the idea that he has ever experienced comfort in his life is near inconceivable. He wants to thrash about, he wants to claw at his skin until he can't feel anything, he wants it - _needs it_ \- to stop, and he just can't scream out profanities loud enough. He can hear Derek whimpering, and it all feels too unreal.

He can feel his lungs expanding frantically, but he's not sure he's actually breathing. Deaton shoves another handful of herbs into the wound and something about their composition triggers something. Stiles starts to splutter and cough, and he hunches ever so slightly. He feels a warm substance make its way up his throat and he coughs again. The taste alerts him that he's coughing up blood, and it's getting on his chin and trickling down his neck.

"Derek!!" Deaton shouts. "He needs you now!" 

Stiles opens his eyes and is momentarily blinded by overflowing tears. He searches for Derek and finally spots him in the corner.

"Derek, come here!" Deaton shouts again.

Derek approaches haltingly, as though Stiles' proximity is physically hurting him.

Deaton removes himself from Stiles' wound, watches the herbs continue to sizzle and bubble, and looks at Derek. "It's not going to taste good," he tells him.

Derek pales and swallows thickly.

Stiles sobs and pants through gritted, bloody teeth, and tenses in anticipation for Derek to contribute to his suffering. 

Derek doesn't move. He stares at Stiles' wound, and doesn't freaking move.

"Derek," Deaton urges.

Derek's fists tighten and he whines again.

Stiles blinks away tears and tries to even out his breathing enough to form words. "Derek," he grits out, trembling and red faced. "This is an awful time to get stage fright." 

Derek looks at him and his expression is absolutely pained. " _Stiles_ ," he says.

"Please," Stiles begs. " _Please_ , Derek. Make it stop."

Derek swallows again, before leaning over Stiles' body and freezing. He brings his hand up to grip the table and his fingers brush Stiles'. He closes his eyes and shudders almost imperceptibly. And still, he doesn't _do_ anything.

"Derek," Stiles groans, tears spilling down his cheeks. Derek looks at him again, and this time Stiles realizes he looks _panicked_. Stiles is thrown, and tries to figure out Derek's reason for distress, struggling against his own pain to think.

The only thing he can come up with is Derek having a serious problem dealing with the intimacy involved in this act. He's going to be covering Stiles in his saliva. Stiles' _insides_. It's gotta be some sort of werewolf taboo. And while Stiles really wants to respect Derek's wishes and personal comfort, he's freaking _dying_ right now.

"Derek," he hisses, staring at him through tear-blurred eyes. "I get that you're not comfortable with this, and I'm sure the very idea of putting your mouth on me is appalling to you, but this is literally killing me. I need you to man up, right now, Derek Hale. Or I swear, if you let me suffer through any more of this, I am never speaking to you again." It's a weak threat, but it's all he can come up with. And it seems to do the job. It gives Derek some form of resolution and he leans down, placing his lips on Stiles' wound. He opens his mouth, and runs his tongue across Stiles' abdomen.

Stiles had been expecting the pain to double, and the burning to quadruple, but neither thing happens. Instead, the pain eases. It starts to go away. A sob of relief escapes Stiles' lips and he closes his eyes. He was aware Alphas could heal others, but _damn_. It was so incredibly _relieving_. 

One of Derek's hands is gripping Stiles' hip gently, and the sensation of his tongue cleaning the wound is absolutely bizarre. Disgusting, even. But Stiles can't bring himself to care. He can _breathe_ again, for goodness sake. His muscles start to relax and he sobs quietly. Somehow, his hand found its way into Derek's hair again, and his thumb is stroking over Derek's scalp softly. "Thank you," he whispers. He feels exhausted. He doesn't think he could bring himself to open his eyes for anything at the moment, not even if Lydia Martin came waltzing in naked.

He was just so tired. He continues to run his hand over Derek's head, and repeats, "thank you", over and over. Stiles drifts off to the feeling of Derek's healing Alpha magic fighting the poison in his body. To the feeling of being safe.

* * *

 

When Stiles starts to come to, the first thing he notices is that his hand is being licked. He opens his eyes and Derek is cradling Stiles' injured hand in his, running his tongue across the length of the cut on Stiles' palm. Stiles watches, and (though he hates to admit it) it is for some reason incredibly _sexy_. He can feel Derek's stubble on his fingertips, and Derek's lips keep catching on a particularly sensitive stretch of skin between his thumb and index finger.

Stiles is so freaking aroused. That's gotta be a sign that he's getting better.

Derek looks up then, and Stiles' heart picks up in speed. Derek runs his thumb over the pulse point of Stiles' wrist, and he says, "Are you okay?"

Stiles nods his head haltingly, muttering, "Fine."

Derek raises his eyebrows at him and pulls away. "How do you feel?" he asks tentatively. 

"Good," Stiles replies, almost too quickly. He takes a moment to let his own words sink in and reassesses his physical state.

For one, he no longer feels like he's burning from the inside out. Which is awesome. He can take in lungfuls of air without any difficulties. Also awesome. And he's also basically covered in Derek's spit. He's not gonna let himself dwell on that for too long though, at least not right now.

He's especially not going to think about what it felt like to have Derek's nose brushing into his hip, or Derek's stubble scraping a raw trail along Stiles' waist, and he's definitely _not_ going to think about the feeling of Derek's tongue getting all kinds of intimate with his lower abdomen.  (The act itself wasn't sexual, but Stiles can't help it if he's going to be thinking of it in such a way later tonight. Alone. In his room. With the company of his hand.)

But he's feeling pretty good right now. Most importantly, he's not dead. Derek saved his life.

Again.

"Feeling pretty great, actually. Where's Deaton?" Stiles says. 

Derek stands up fully, wiping a hand over his mouth, before saying, "I think he's dealing with a customer."

"Mh." Stiles decides he wants to sit up and attempts to do so. It takes way more effort than he was anticipating, and his arms shake under his weight. 

But then Derek's arm is there, supporting Stiles before his own arms give way.

"Thanks," Stiles sighs, resting his head on Derek's shoulder.

Derek grunts in response.

Stiles heaves a deep sigh and looks down at his wound. He notices that all of the stitches have been taken out, leaving the injury completely open. He holds his palm up and sees that most of the stitches are still in his palm.  He's about to ask Derek why his hand is stitched and his stomach isn't, when Deaton walks in.

He's reading over some papers and takes a moment to glance at Stiles. "Good, you're awake." He notices that Stiles is examining his palm, and says, "We still have to take those stitches out."

Stiles frowns. "Why? Aren't stitches supposed to help the healing process? Why would we want to take them out?"

Deaton puts his papers down and approaches the two of them. "Well, don't you think it would be harder for Derek to clean your injuries if those stitches are in the way?"

Stiles can feel Derek tense behind him, and he closes his palm. "What, you- you mean we gotta do this more?" His stomach tightens the more he considers the possibility.

Deaton shrugs. "Honestly, I don't know. Chances are high, though."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, healing you is not a simple matter," Deaton says, tilting his head. "Obviously, you don't have the same healing factors as a werewolf. Nor that of a normal human."

Stiles shifts against Derek, the werewolf's proximity acting as a mental support. "What do you mean, 'normal human'?"

Deaton leans against the counter and inclines his head. "Stiles, not just anyone can be a spark."

"Are you saying I'm a witch or something?"

"Not necessarily," Deaton says, approaching Stiles. "You have magic in your blood. It's part of your very being, but whether it's genetic, or chance, or a gift, I'm not sure. All I know is that it makes the matter of treating you very complicated. This is the first time I've seen a spark come in contact with a faery's venom, so we're going to be be making a lot of guesses on how to keep you alive." He glances at Derek. "This is made even more difficult with the amount of time that's passed. The venom has been in your system for more than a week, and so has the saliva of an alpha that is not yours. It's probable that the only reason you were able to survive was because your spark took what aid it could from the foreign saliva. If you weren't a spark, I have no doubt that you would be dead by now."

Stiles nods, albeit numbly. "Right." He rubs his hand down his face and swallows. "Right." Great. So apparently he should be dead. And apparently he's  _magic_. He focuses more on that newly obtained fact than the others. This means he'll have to add himself to the list of supernatural beings.

...That thought is inexplicably terrifying.

"Wait, so-" Stiles puts his hands in his lap and wrings them together. "So what am I, exactly? Am I not entirely human?"

"Oh, no, you're human," Deaton says. "You're just a human with abilities that not everyone has. Think of the spark as... a sort of sixth sense. You are attuned to a certain part of this realm that very few people have access to. It just means that you're going to be able to do things that others have to train years to do."

"And what, exactly, will I be able to do?"

"You can come into contact with almost anything that is otherwise harmful to supernatural beings." Deaton smiles. "Like mountain ash. And what's more, there are certain tomes, runes, scrolls, or spells in this world that only a spark has access to. With enough practice, you _might_ find yourself with abilities not dissimilar to that of a witch."

Oh. Well that actually doesn't sound so bad. In fact, that sounds like it'll give him the capability to protect Scott better. And in turn, Beacon Hills. Stiles is filled with a sudden surge of hope that he might actually become useful. 

"How do I practice?" he blurts out. 

Deaton chuckles and goes to retrieve the papers he had set down. "We can talk about that once you get better," Deaton says. "For now, though, you should go home and rest. After we get those stitches out, of course." 

Stiles sighs and mutters, "Fine." He glances at Derek and drops his voice. "Can you help me off this table?" he asks.

Derek nods at him and carefully lifts Stiles into his arms. He manages to walk a few steps before Stiles starts smacking his shoulder.

"You can put me down," Stiles huffs.

Derek eyes him. "Are you sure?"

Stiles nods, and says, "I only wanted your help off the table, but I wanna walk on my own."

"Alright, if you think you can do it," Derek sighs, before kneeling down so Stiles can get on his own feet. Once he straightens out, Stiles sways, and his hand shoots out for Derek's shoulder and clutches it like a lifeline. Derek wraps his arm around Stiles' waist, supporting him. 

Stiles' vision swims and he leans against Derek until it clears. He blinks away the rest of the fog plaguing his view and shakes his head. "Shit," he whispers.

Derek's hand tightens on his waist and Stiles looks at him. Their eyes hold for a moment, and Derek says, "How about I help you walk?"

Stiles nods. "Yeah, okay."

Neither one notices the amused look Deaton is giving them.

"Now, about that hand," Deaton says, before they can forget he's there.

* * *

 When they get back to the Stilinski household, Stiles' dad is thankfully still out. As they slowly make their way up the front steps, Derek glances at the driveway occupied only by Stiles' jeep. Stiles looks too, and says, "Isn't she beautiful? Best goddamn car in the whole town, I tell you."

"Mine's better," Derek replies. He shuts the door behind them, and says, "Does your dad work everyday?"

"Why?"

"He never seems to be home."

"Oh." They maneuver their way towards the couch and Derek takes most of Stiles' weight until they're seated. "He's actually on his day off. Well, week off. He's not home right now because he went to do errands." Stiles relaxes against the couch's cushions and groans as his muscles unclench. "Actually," he says a little breathlessly, "I feel like he's been out for a while." He blinks and nervously tugs at the shirt Deaton lent him. "Wait a second. How long have _we_ been out? How much time has passed since I woke up this morning?"

Derek shrugs. "An hour and a half, maybe."

"What in the- Seriously? It feels like so much has happened."

"A lot _has_ happened. You had an exciting morning."

Stiles lies back and rests his head on the arm of the couch. "Yeah, I guess that's true. Hey, is it alright if I put my feet on your lap?"

Derek sighs, exasperated, and looks at Stiles with a raised brow. "I just spent the better part of an hour licking the inside of your stomach. Your feet don't really scare me anymore."

Stiles nods. "Good point." He brings his legs up with an immense amount of care, and settles his calves and ankles over Derek's lap. Derek places his hands over Stiles' ankles, resting them there.

Stiles yawns and starts to stretch, but stops abruptly, making a quiet 'guh!' sound.

Derek pats Stiles' ankle. "Be careful. Don't strain anything we just fixed."

Stiles huffs and places his hands over his stomach. "Okay, _dad_." He grumbles, and tries to settle further into the cushions. He yawns again and stares at Derek. "Hey."

Derek stares back. "What."

"When's your birthday?"

Derek fiddles with the hem of Stiles' pant leg. "Why?"

Stiles shrugs. "So I know when to prepare for it."

Derek frowns at Stiles, his bafflement apparent. "Why on earth do you need to prepare for it?"

"So I know when to start looking for a goat to sacrifice for whatever werewolf ritual is sure to ensue."

"Oh my God. What the hell? Where do you get these ideas, Stiles?"

"Okay, if you don't sacrifice goats, then what _do_ you do for your birthday?"

Derek shifts under Stiles' feet and Stiles kicks at him gently. "I don't know. Normal stuff? I don't remember."

"You don't remember? How can you not remember? When was the last time you celebrated your birthday?"

"I don't know."

Stiles rubs his heels into Derek's thigh. "Okay, now you gotta tell me. If you don't, I won't be able to throw you a _real_ birthday."

Derek stays silent.

Stiles sighs, and says, "If you don't tell me your birthday, I won't tell you mine-"

"July 21st."

Stiles gapes at Derek, mouth wide in horror. "How do you _know_ that? I never told you!"

"Yes, you did. ...I think."

"Oh my God. You're so creepy."

Derek just nods in agreement.

It startles a laugh out of Stiles, and Derek glances at him. With those stupid beautiful eyes hiding an actual sense of humor behind them. Stiles' chuckling tapers off, until he's only grinning at Derek. He takes a moment to revel in the comfortable smiling between them, before saying, "Alright. But seriously, now you've gotta tell me. It's not fair if you know my birthday and I don't know yours."

Derek exhales and looks at his hands. "February 16th."

Stiles frowns and then makes an offended squawk. "No way, you ass!"

Derek looks back at him.

"That's next week! Were you really gonna keep it from everyone and just let it pass by?"

Derek takes a moment to look like he has to think about it, then nods.

Stiles kicks Derek's thighs softly and says, "Asshole. You're an asshole. Who even does that to themselves?" Derek shrugs, and Stiles sighs again. "I can't believe you. I'm gonna have to make you an awesome cake. Gotta make up for all those lost birthdays."

Derek rolls his eyes and says, "Fine. If it'll help you sleep at night."

Stiles smiles and is grateful that they're still able to hold banter. Because honestly, Derek had seemed really uncomfortable at the clinic, and Stiles had been afraid that it would ruin what friendship they were building. He's hoping this has brought them closer.

Other than literally.

Derek jerks suddenly under Stiles' feet, and his head whips towards the front door.

"What?" Stiles asks, looking between Derek and the front of the house. "What's wrong?"

Derek cradles Stiles' feet and lifts them off of his lap, standing up. "Your dad's home."

Stiles' eyes widen. "Oh! Oh, shoot, you've gotta get out of here! Quick, go through the window in my room!" He starts to push himself up and his face scrunches up in pain. "Derek, you've gotta-"

Derek places his hands on Stiles' shoulders and starts to gently lay him back down. "Don't get up, you idiot. Calm down," he says. "You'll hurt yourself." Keys start to jingle outside the door and Derek backs away towards the staircase. "I'll talk to you later," he says, before he's gone.

Stiles is filled with warmth, Derek's promise to talk later giving him a strange sense of hope.

The front door opens and Stiles' dad comes in, arms filled with groceries.  "Hey!" his dad says, noticing Stiles.

Stiles waves at him.

He sets his bags down and approaches the couch. "What're you doing?" he asks.

"Nothing. I had been watching tv, but then I decided to take a nap."

"Ah. I didn't wake you up, did I?"

Stiles shakes his head. "Nah, don't worry."

His dad nods, heading back to the groceries. Stiles can hear him moving stuff in the kitchen, when his dad calls, "Hey, Stiles?"

Stiles lifts himself up, making sure to be careful because of Derek's warning not to hurt himself, and looks over the side of the couch. "Yeah, dad?"

His dad approaches the couch, rubbing the back of his neck. "Listen, I've been thinking... How would you feel about having Derek Hale over for dinner sometime?" Stiles wants to laugh. "It's just, he saved your life, and I feel like we oughta repay him." His dad is inadvertently suggesting they have a dinner date. "Heaven knows the last time he had a home cooked meal." Oh God. His dad is arranging for him to cook for Derek. And _obviously_ it's gonna be him cooking, his dad had never been a culinary master. Stiles presses his lips together to keep from grinning or laughing, and his dad stares at him. "...Well?"

"Sounds like a good idea, dad!"

Mr. Stilinski nods and turns back to the kitchen. "I thought so too." Stiles settles back, and listens to his dad. "Probably should have had him over sooner, actually. Should have checked up on him. Hell, if anything, I owe it to his parents to do that much."

Stiles perks up. "What do you mean?"

His dad sighs, and says, "We used to be good friends with the Hales."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Well... your mom was. I mean, I was too, but they were _her_ friends, you know?"

Stiles is silent for a moment, then asks, voice softer than he intends, "Did I know them?"

There's a pause, before Stilinski says from the kitchen, "Yeah. You did."

"How well?"

"Well," his dad says, chuckling softly. "There's a picture of Derek holding you when you were a baby."

What?

"I knew him?"

"Oh, yeah. You two spent a lot of time together. He used to act like you annoyed him so much, but whenever you were around, he couldn't leave you alone. Laura used to..." He trails off, apparently reminiscing about the deceased person he'd named. Stiles heard silence in the kitchen, his father having stopped shuffling groceries for the moment. "She used to call him your 'guard dog'," he finishes.

Stiles digs his fingers into a couch pillow and tries to keep from getting overwhelmed by emotion. So he and Derek apparently _had_ been friends. And it sounded like Derek had been protective of him.

Stiles' heart thuds in his chest, and he can feel his ears heating up. He kneads the pillow between his fingers, images of a small Derek Hale watching over an even smaller version of himself flitting through his mind. Stiles wonders if Derek has remembered him this whole time, or if he forgot like Stiles did.

He jumps out of his reverie when a pot crashes in the kitchen. "You okay?" he calls to his dad.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, just clumsy," his dad replies. Stiles listens to dishes being moved around, and remembers why they had brought up the Hales in the first place. 

Dinner.

"Hey dad, do you want me to text Derek about dinner?" he blurts out before he properly thinks about it.

There's silence in the kitchen, before his dad says, "You have his phone number?"

Oh, shit. Right. His dad doesn't know he's on stomach licking terms with Derek. "Uh, yeah. I've sort of hung out with him a few times."

"Really?" His dad walks back into the living room, a loaf of bread in hand. "You two are friends again?"

Stiles refrains from squirming where he lay, not missing his dad's switch into cop mode. "I don't know about 'again'. I mean, I didn't know I knew him before. And 'friend' is such a relative term, you know?" he chuckles nervously, not forgetting that Derek is a registered criminal. Even if he is a supposed old family friend.

His dad frowns slightly and shifts the weight on his feet. "How long have you two been hanging out?"

Stiles shrugs. "Not long. Within the past year."

"I see."

Stiles nods, wringing the pillow between his hands as subtly as he can manage.

"How much of a coincidence was it that he found you that night?" Mr. Stilinski asks out of nowhere.

"Okay, now _that_ was genuine random happenstance. Scott and I were not planning on seeing him at all that day."

"Just that day?"

"We _rarely_ ever plan on seeing him."

"But there are still times when you plan on it?"

Stiles holds his non-injured hand up (not wanting to show off the open wound on his right palm) defensively. "Whoah, okay, dad. What is this, twenty questions? Why are you acting all weird? I thought you trusted Derek."

"No, I do, yeah, I think I do."

"Alright, then do you still want me to invite him for dinner? It _was_ your idea."

His dad runs his hand down his face, then nods. "Yeah, sure. Go ahead."

"You positive? Because, if you think he's not-"

His dad holds his hand up and shakes his head. "No, no. It'll be good, it'll be fine." He pauses and takes a moment to really think about his decision.  "Yeah, it'll be fine." He nods. "It will be nice to see him again."

Stiles nods back at him, waiting to see if his dad changes his mind.

His dad sighs, and says, "It could definitely get these rumors cleared up if I could see him for myself."

"What rumors?"

His dad shrugs. "You know. The usual for someone having once been accused of murder."

Stiles nods in understanding and doesn't miss the fact that the rumors are his fault. He settles back into the cushions and silence settles between them. His dad stands there, thinking, and Stiles watches him.

After a while, Stiles finally points at the bread in the sheriff's hand. "You planning to do something with that, dad?"

Stilinski blinks and looks at the bread, obviously having forgotten it was there. "Oh. Yeah, I was... putting it away," he says, turning back to the kitchen to finish what he had been doing before.

Stiles pulls out his phone once his dad leaves and goes through his contacts. When he reaches Derek's registered name, he starts a new message thread.

 **To: Dumb Face**  
**Sent: Thu, Feb 10, 9:42**  
**Hey**

He relaxes into the couch and prepares to wait. He's startled when he gets an immediate reply and his pulse beats wildly in excitement. Derek's reply reads:

 **From: Dumb Face**  
**What do u want. I just left.**  
**Thu, Feb 10, 9:43**

Stiles scoffs at Derek's feigned message of annoyance.

 **To: Dumb Face**  
**Sent: Thu, Feb 10, 9:43  
wat r u doing 2mrw**

After sending the text, Stiles realizes that it kind of sounds like he's getting ready to ask Derek out. God. Oh God. 'What are you doing tomorrow' usually precedes an invite to some kind of date.

Like dinner.

Oh God. He's totally asking Derek out right now. He didn't think this through. He feels like throwing up. And Derek still hasn't texted back yet shit shit shit-

Stiles' phone vibrates in his hand and he stops breathing for a moment. He's reluctant to open Derek's text, but eventually he looks.

 **From: Dumb Face**  
**Why**  
**Thu, Feb 10, 9:50**

Oh, no. Derek hates him. Derek is obviously uncomfortable. It took him 7 whole minutes to reply. Okay, alright, he can still salvage this. He's just gotta play it cool.

 **To: Dumb Face**  
**Sent: Thu, Feb 10, 9:52  
My dad wants 2 kno if ur available 4 dinner**

Okay, starting with honesty. Not bad. And if Stiles knows anything about Derek, the dumb face is going to reply with a question. And when he does, Stiles will be able to-

His phone vibrates, and Stiles looks at the message.

 **From: Dumb Face**  
**Why?**  
**Thu, Feb 10, 9:55**

Now, then. Time to get this conversation back to their usual level of weirdness and lies.

 **To: Dumb Face**  
**Sent: Thu, Feb 10, 9:55  
my dad wants 2 hav a d8 w u**

Stiles smiles to himself, pleased with how he's diverted any possible wariness Derek could have felt towards him.

 **From: Dumb Face**  
**WHAT**  
**Thu, Feb 10, 9:57**

He should probably clear things up now, though, if he doesn't want Derek to dig himself an eternal hidey hole or fly to the other side of the country, or develop a strange sort of fear of his dad.

 **To: Dumb Face**  
**Sent: Thu, Feb 10, 9:58  
Kidding. He jus wants u over 2 say thnx 4 saving me. Ther will b dinner tho**

He sighs and sets his phone down. It's only 9 in the morning (well, almost 10), and he's already undergone a nauseating roller coaster of emotion in the span of 13 minutes.

All thanks to texting stupid Derek Hale. As if his morning with Derek hadn't been a wild enough ride as it was. Apparently bleeding out on a dude isn't enough reason for the cosmos to leave him and said dude alone.

His phone vibrates then and he irritably notes how his heart picks up in speed.

 **From: Dumb Face**  
**What will be for dinner**  
**Thu, Feb 10, 10:00**

He tries to keep from smiling, but Derek's question gives Stiles the sense that he plans on coming regardless of what's served.

 **To: Dumb Face**  
**Sent: Thu, Feb 10, 10:01  
Dunno yet. But i cn make anything u want m 2**

He snuggles into the pillows and winces when he makes too careless a shift and pulls on something in his stomach. Stiles receives Derek's reply, and is distracted from the small pain that had blossomed.

 **From: Dumb Face**  
**Your making dinner?**  
**Thu, Feb 10, 10:03**

Stiles actually smiles this time.

 **To: Dumb Face**  
**Sent: Thu, Feb 10, 10:03**  
**You're* nd yea I am**

Derek texts back surprisingly quick.

 **From: Dumb Face**  
**Dont correct my spelling when ur the one using numbers the whole time**  
**Thu, Feb 10, 10:04**

Stiles chuckles, Derek's message striking an endearing chord. So he's still willing to tease and bicker.

 **To: Dumb Face**  
**Sent: Thu, Feb 10, 10:05**  
**Hey I only use # somtimes! nd You're***

He bites his lip and smiles at his phone, before promptly frowning at himself.

God. He is such a schoolgirl.

The phone vibrates with a new message and Stiles scowls at how his insides flutter. He hates when his body betrays him.

 **From: Dumb Face**  
**You are such a liar. And shut up.**  
**Thu, Feb 10, 10:05**

Stiles grins despite himself and suddenly thinks of Derek as _cute_. What has his life come to? But it's true, Derek's defensive text is somehow incredibly cute to Stiles. Alright. He has definitely fallen deep.

 **To: Dumb Face**  
**Sent: Thu, Feb 10, 10:06**  
**awww is da lil wulf gettin defensive ;)**

He couldn't pass the opportunity up. When Derek replies, he's only a little disappointed to see Derek changed the subject.

 **From: Dumb Face**  
**What time do you want me over there?**  
**Thu, Feb 10, 10:07**

Stiles could never stay disappointed long at a text that promised Derek's company, though.

He grabs the top of the couch and slowly pulls himself into a sitting position, until he can see into the other room. He spots his dad at the dining table, reading over a newspaper.

"Hey, dad," Stiles calls. His dad looks up at him. "Is tomorrow a good day for Derek to come over?"

His dad nods. "Yeah, that'll be fine," he says.

"Okay," Stiles replies. He glances down at his phone, then back at his dad. "What time should he come over?"

His dad exhales and stares at a spot on the table. "Six?" he finally says.

Stiles nods, and says, "Alright, I'll tell him."

 **To: Dumb Face**  
**Sent: Thu, Feb 10, 10:11**  
**6**

Stiles scratches his head and tries to sit up straighter. This morning has been extremely exciting. Almost too exciting.

Stiles figures he's ready to go back to bed.

He stands up on shaking legs and uses the couch for support. "Dad," he says, stomach aching dully, "can you help me up the stairs?"

He can hear his dad getting up from the table. "Yeah, yeah. Hold on." The sheriff hurries to his son's side, slipping an arm around his waist. Stiles hooks his arm over his dad's shoulder and they shuffle towards the stairs.

They take the steps one at a time, and by the fifth step Stiles can feel sweat beading on his forehead.

"You alright, kid?" his dad asks.

"Yeah, m'fine," Stiles grunts.

His phone vibrates and Stiles knows his dad is reading over his shoulder when he opens the text.

 **From: Dumb Face**  
**Do u want me to bring anything**  
**Thu, Feb 10, 10:24**

"Dumb face?" his dad asks, a chuckle in his voice.

Stiles types in 'na ur good' and says, "Yeah." They reach the top of the stairs and Stiles puffs, wincing, "He's a total dumb face." They get into his room and Stiles flops on his bed, grimacing. The past hour is really catching up to him.

He hears a _clack_ on his nightstand, and looks over to see his dad setting his bottle of pills down. "You take these," his dad says.

Stiles nods.

"I'll get you some water," Mr. Stilinski adds, stepping out of the room.

Stiles grabs the bottle and uncaps it, pouring three pills into his palm.

His phone vibrates, and he clutches the pills close and looks at the text.

 **From: Dumb Face**  
**Get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow**  
**Thu, Feb 10, 10:36**

"Oh my God," he breathes shakily. Derek is going to give him heart problems, if his heart's stuttering is anything to go by.

His dad walks back in and Stiles quickly puts his phone away. The sheriff frowns at him. "You sure you're feeling alright? You're looking a little red."

Dammit. Derek made him blush.

Stiles nods, running a hand over his head. "Yeah, I'm fine. I just need rest."

"Right, right. Here." His dad hands him the water and Stiles uses it to wash down his medicine. He settles back against his pillows once he's swallowed everything, and his dad places his hand on Stiles' forehead.

"Feel better," he says, before leaving.

Once he's alone, Stiles pulls his phone back out and stares at the text.

_Get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow_

He sighs deeply and places his hand over his hard beating heart. Stupid Derek.

Stupid, stupid Derek.

Such a casual and well-meaning text has no right to unravel him so completely. It's just so thoughtful, and for such a thoughtful notion to be directed at _him_ is earth shattering.

Stiles never dared to expect or hope for someone to show concern for him like this. Not that he's never been fussed over, it's just... This is Derek. And he has been showing consistent and continuous concern for Stiles lately.

Stiles is almost reluctant to believe it.

Someone like _Derek_ isn't supposed to care about someone like _him_.

Stiles rolls over and holds the phone close, and keeps his eyes trained on the text. He mulls thoughts over in his head, all of them about Derek, until he starts to doze off.

He ends up sleeping through the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoah!! Okay, so sorry for being so late!! I can't believe it's taken me so long to finish this chapter... Sorry sorry! And thank you for being so patient!! ;v;


	6. Friday, February 11th, 2011

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles serves his detention and Derek comes over for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MERRY CHRISTMAS~!! Here's an update as a Christmas gift! :) 
> 
> I hope.... this makes up for two years without any update... lmao... 
> 
> (you might be able to notice a slight difference in my writing at the beginning of the chapter and the end, and that would be because I've been working on this off and on over the past two years)
> 
> (sorry this took so long to finish, I'm just glad it was ready for the holidays)
> 
> EDIT: Yikes!! I just realized the scene changes got deleted in the upload! I'm gonna try to fix them, but AO3 is being really finicky with me right now. Hang tight!

Stiles secures clean bandages over his stomach and pulls his shirt on. He stares at the old, dirty bandages in his hands and frowns, trying to think of where he could throw them out.

 

He can hear someone washing their hands, and figures it would be wise not to walk out of a stall with hands full of bloody wrappings. Questions would be asked.

 

Or at least rumors started.

 

He eyes the backpack at his feet and briefly contemplates throwing the bandages in there, but decides he’d rather not get his schoolwork covered in blood.

 

He’s starting to get desperate and is honestly considering just flushing the bandages (regardless of the inevitable clogging and discovery of bloody things in a boy’s bathroom toilet), when he hears the hand dryer turn on.

 

The drying of hands means that whoever’s in the bathroom is about to _leave_ the bathroom. Stiles smiles to himself and makes a little fist pump. He’s gonna be able to throw out the goddamn wrappings without having to give any explanations. _And then_ , since class is still in session, he’ll be able to get to the boys’ locker room without anyone seeing him and he’ll be able to use the locker room dumpster.

 

It’ll be perfect. Coach never asks questions.

 

He hears the person walk out of the bathroom and Stiles hastily picks his backpack up. He’s about to leave the stall, when the bathroom door opens _again_ , letting someone else in.

 

He refrains from sighing and rests his head against the stall door.

 

He is never going to be able to leave this bathroom. He’s going to end up spending the rest of his days here, and he’s going to _die_ , probably surrounded by fecal matter and urine that’s _not even_ _his._

 

Such is the way of his life.

 

“Stiles?”

 

“ _Jesus!_ ”

 

He flinches away from the voice on the other side of the door, slips on a puddle of _something,_ and falls on top of the toilet. “What the hell, Scott?” Stiles huffs, pushing himself back on his feet.

 

Scott chuckles from outside the stall and says, “Sorry. What are you doing in there?”

 

Stiles opens the door and holds up the bandages, exasperated. “I was trying to figure out how to get rid of these.”

 

“Oh.” Scott laughs again. “How’s that going?”

 

“Ridiculous. I’ve been trapped in here for hours.”

 

Scott raises a brow.

 

“Well, okay, maybe more like fifteen minutes,” Stiles mends. “But still, I hate trying to be completely silent when I’m in here. Why do high school students do this? Why do we try to act like we don’t exist when we’re not alone in the bathroom?”

 

Stiles follows Scott into the hallway, and Scott shrugs, saying, “Because shitting is gross, and no one can know that we do it.”

 

Stiles snorts. “Apparently.”

 

They walk through the halls, the bandages stuffed in Stiles’ pocket, and he turns to Scott. “Why were you in there, anyway? Did you have to go?”

 

“No, I was just wondering where you went.”

 

“Finstock let you leave? I mean, I already left for the bathroom and he knows you’re my best friend, and he was _still_ cool with you going? Isn’t he afraid we’re gonna ditch or wreak havoc, or something?”

 

Scott shrugs. “I don’t know man, he doesn’t care. Besides, we’re just doing a worksheet right now, so it’s like class isn’t even happening.”

 

“I guess you’re right,” Stiles says as they turn into the locker room. He tosses the bandages into the trash can in the farthest corner, and they head back to the class. On their way out, Stiles glances at the clock and says, “School’s gonna end in a second.”

 

“Let’s walk really slow back to class, then,” Scott says.

 

Stiles chuckles.

 

“How’ve you been feeling today, by the way?” Scott asks.

 

“A lot better.”

 

“Yeah? You smell a lot cleaner. Did something happen?”

 

Stiles scratches his head. “I dunno, kinda. It was kinda weird.” He thinks of Derek, and his heart flutters. The dumb betraying organ.

 

“What happened?” Scott steps closer, now more interested than before.

 

Stiles sighs and says, “Apparently Derek’s my alpha?”

 

Scott frowns. “But you’re not a werewolf.”

 

“That’s what I said!” Stiles shouts, throwing his arms up for emphasis.

 

Scott scrunches up his nose and says, “It kinda makes sense, though. Now that I think about it, you do feel like pack.” He blinks. “Actually, you’ve always felt like pack. I thought it was just because you’re my friend.”

 

Stiles shoves his hands in his pockets. “I don’t really know how to feel about it. I mean, I’m stoked, definitely, but I’m also sort of scared.”

 

“Why’s that?”

 

“Well, won’t it make me a target? I’m not even a supernatural-- Oh, wait! That’s another thing! Apparently I have magic.”

 

“Like Harry Potter?”

 

“Something like that. Deaton says that with practice I’ll be able to use it.”

 

Scott grins at him. “Dude, that’s hella cool!”

 

Stiles smiles back and says, “Yeah, I guess it kinda is.”

 

“So your magic is what made you feel better?”

 

Stiles grimaces. “ _Not_ quite. And that’s the other thing. You know that potion stuff Derek was using?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Turns out it wasn’t working, because Derek’s dad was never my alpha.”

 

Scott catches on quick and makes a disgusted face. “Ew, no way. So Derek had to spit on you?”

 

“Uh-uh.” Stiles shakes his head. “Worse. He had to _lick_ me.”

 

“Ugh! No!”

 

“Yup. He had to run his tongue all over my wounds.”

 

Scott’s body is wracked with an over-exaggerated shudder, and he says, “Ugh, that is so weird. That is so _gross_!”

 

“Yeah.”

 

They get back to Finstock’s just as the class is packing up, so they move to do the same. While Stiles is putting his pencil away and folding his notebook, Scott says, “So… Derek licked you. Like, a lot.”

 

Stiles stares at him, not sure where this is going.

 

Scott grins cheekily. “Did you enjoy it?”

 

Stiles’ cheeks rush with heat and he smacks Scott with his notebook.

 

* * *

 

Detention with Harris is the worst. Stiles wants to groan, but doing so would probably earn him _another_ detention. He’s just glad he’s not doing this alone.

 

Scott and Isaac, like the cool friends they are, apparently got themselves in trouble so Stiles could have company in detention. And Stiles isn’t just assuming this, he would never expect someone to give up their free time after school for him.

 

But when Stiles walked into Harris’s, Scott and Isaac were already there.

 

Stiles had asked them, “What are you guys doing here?”

 

Scott had grumbled, “We accidentally dropped some beakers and they shattered.” Then he winked at Stiles, and Stiles couldn’t help but chuckle.

 

“You guys are idiots,” he had told them.

 

He still thinks they’re idiots. He knows neither of them _like_ doing homework, and Harris has forced them to do multiple assignments for the past hour or so. Stiles wonders if they regret joining him yet.

 

Scott turns to look at him over his shoulder (Harris has them scattered through the class), and Stiles is suddenly afraid Scott can hear his thoughts.

 

“Eyes on your work,” Harris barks.

 

Scott goes back to his assignment and Stiles goes back to his. He gets a few more problems done, when movement in his peripheral catches his attention.

 

When he glances up, Isaac is looking at him. Or rather, frowning at him.

 

And Stiles can’t tell what kind of frown it is. He’s not sure if it’s angry, or worried, or hurt, or _what_.

 

Stiles stares back at him and haltingly shrugs his shoulders as a way to say, _What is it?_

 

“Stop distracting them, Stilinski,” Harris says.

 

“I wasn’t--!” He turns to respond, and notices that Scott is frowning at him too.

 

“Don’t argue. Do your work. Or do you want another detention?” Harris counters.

 

Stiles sighs, glancing at Scott and Isaac, before mumbling, “No, sir.”

 

“Then face front, all of you.”

 

They get back to work, and Stiles tries to act like he doesn’t notice every time Scott and Isaac turn to look at him. He can’t figure out what they want. Are they mad at him? Blaming him for something? Maybe they’re stuck on a problem and want him to do their work. Maybe they remembered a really funny joke and can’t wait to tell him.

 

He decides to ignore them and glances at the clock. There are only ten minutes left of detention. Whatever’s bugging them can wait for when Harris lets them out.

 

He’s in the middle of writing a sentence, when a sharp pain shoots up Stiles’ wrist. He glances at his hand, _daring_ it to start hurting, and continues writing.

 

His writing is starting to look sloppier and he realizes that his hand is shaking. He stops, and watches in nigh fascination as his pencil is caught between spasming muscles.

 

Then it starts to ache, and that’s when the nausea hits him.

 

He drops his pencil and tries to stand up, knocking his chair over in the process. A small pool of black blood puddles around his shaking hand, and he starts to seriously miss the stitches that had been in his palm. Maybe they would’ve been able to keep the blood inside him.

“Stilinski! Sit back down!”

 

He looks up at Harris, his breaths growing shorter, and realizes that Scott and Isaac are standing. It occurs to Stiles that the reason they were so agitated before was probably because they sensed something was wrong with him.

 

“Mr. Harris--,” he chokes and closes his eyes to fight back dizziness. He wipes at the perspiration on his brow with his good hand and tries again. “Mr. Harris, I don’t feel good.”

 

“Don’t think I’ll fall for this, Stilinski, I’m not letting you out early.”

 

“C’mon, please--!” He falters and loses his balance. He falls back, and anticipates the cold floor or a hard desk corner, but instead lands against Scott’s firm chest and arms.

 

“Sir, he’s really not looking too good,” Scott says next to his ear.

 

“Yeah, he’s looking kinda green,” Isaac adds from nearby.

 

“Do you boys think I’m an idiot? I’m not going to let you leave early with a dumb prank like this.”

 

What?

 

“This isn’t a prank!” Scott says. “He’s seriously sick right now and we’ve gotta get him home!”

 

Stiles’ stomach rolls and he whimpers.

 

Scott’s hold on him tightens. “Mr. Harris, there are only like five minutes left of detention, it won’t make any difference if we miss it.”

 

Stiles coughs and blood starts to drip from between his lips. He can hear Isaac getting their stuff packed up.

 

“You still think this is a prank?” Scott almost growls. “Just let us go. We can get him the help he needs, you won’t have to deal with it.”

 

Stiles is sure that promise appeals to Harris. He’s never been interested in the wellbeing of his students, nor for being responsible for them.

 

“Fine,” Harris stammers, accepting Scott’s proposal. “Fine, just go.”

 

The selfish dick.

 

Scott takes most of Stiles’ weight and half-carries, half-drags him to the hall. Once they get far enough away from Harris’, Scott leans down and lifts Stiles into his arms.

 

Stiles fights back a surge of vomit, the unexpected shifting flipping his stomach uncomfortably. After breathing through his nose a while, he grinds out, “I’m not some dame, you know.”

 

Scott adjusts his arm under Stiles’ knees and chuckles. “Sure, you’re not. Where are we going, Stiles?” Scott asks.

 

“I- I dunno--”

 

“Where should we take you?”

 

“I don’t know, I-- My car. To my car.”

 

“Okay.” Scott leads them to the parking lot and Isaac opens the driver side door when they reach Stiles’ car. They place him on the driver’s seat, facing out towards them and the lot, and Scott keeps his hands on Stiles’ shoulders to hold him upright.

 

“Alright, Stiles, you with me?” Scott asks.

 

Stiles nods weakly, glancing at Scott. His right hand shakes atop his knee, and blood continues to spill from the wound on his palm. He lifts his hand when he notices the blood staining his pants and instead grabs onto Scott’s bare arm.

 

Scott frowns at the blood smearing on his skin and says, “What do we do about this? How can we help you?”

 

Stiles opens his mouth to answer, but instead what comes out is a jarring cough. Blood flows between his lips and onto the pavement at their feet. “Derek,” Stiles gasps around the blood. “Call Derek.”

 

“Already on it,” Isaac says, a phone to his ear.

 

Stiles tries to listen to what Isaac tells Derek, but his focus is torn away every time he coughs. More blood seems to come up as time progresses and he realizes that his body is showing signs of getting ready to vomit.

 

Stiles grabs both of Scott’s arms and pushes him away, and starts coughing harder. He falls to his knees on the pavement as bile tears up his throat, and black blood— no, _poison_ —bursts from his mouth and splatters on the road.

 

He can see Scott and Isaac backing away out of the corner of his eye. He spits out the last remnants of the bloody substance and holds his hand against his mouth. He closes his eyes and steadies his breaths, sweat dripping from his brow. His stomach feels hollow and tight, but it also feels cleaner. Like a freaking demon or something was just exorcised from his body.

 

“Jesus, what the hell is that?” Isaac says.

 

Stiles opens his eyes and coughs again in a natural recoil. There’s a small, black blob sitting at the center of what he’d just thrown up.

 

“Oh my God,” Stiles breathes. “What _is_ that?”

 

“I don’t know,” Scott says, a little panicked. “I don’t know, I don’t know what that is.”

 

“Oh my God,” Stiles repeats, volume rising. “That was _inside_ me. Oh my God. Oh, Jesus!”

 

“Okay, alright, it’s alright, it’s probably no big deal,” Isaac says. “Maybe it’s just an air bubble.”

 

Silence.

 

“Touch it,” Scott blurts.

 

“I’m not gonna touch it, _you_ touch it!” Stiles squawks. “What if it’s an alien? Oh my God, what if it’s an egg? Holy shit! What if I’m infested?!”

 

“You’re not! You’re probably fine!”

 

“Yeah, we’re probably freaking out over nothing!”

 

“Don’t worry, stop worrying, we’ll know for sure when Derek gets here!”

 

“Where the _hell_ is that that damn alpha, anyway?”

 

The camaro pulls into the lot and comes to a screeching halt a few feet away from them. Derek jumps out of the car and doesn’t even bother to close his door, and stops when he notices the puddle of blood.

 

“What happened?” he asks, noticeably breathless.

 

“I barfed out an alien!” Stiles squeaks.

 

Derek falters. “What?”

 

“He started coughing up blood and then _that_ thing came out!” Isaac adds, pointing at the bloody blob.

 

Derek kneels in front of the puddle and glares at the blob in question. “What is it?” he asks.

 

“We don’t know!”

 

“Alright, we should take it to Deaton.” He looks up at Stiles and Stiles’ heart flutters. “Are you alright?” Derek asks.

 

Stiles swallows. “I don’t know.”

 

Derek scoots closer to him and takes Stiles’ bloody hand. “When did this start?”

 

“Like, ten minutes ago?”

 

Derek takes the flimsy, soaked bandage off of Stiles’ palm and analyzes the cut “You’ve stopped bleeding,” he comments.

 

“Really? I mean, I guess I’ve been feeling better…”

 

Derek brings Stiles’ palm to his mouth and Stiles’ heart nearly stops.

 

“Whoah, okay,” Isaac cuts in. “Are we interrupting?” he asks, then points to himself and Scott. “Should we leave?”

 

“No,” Derek says, his voice heavy with authority. Derek runs his tongue along Stiles’ cut, though it’s more like a really wet kiss against his palm, and Stiles tries to regulate his heart rate. Why the hell is Derek not telling Scott and Isaac to leave? He doesn’t want them to see this! He can feel his face heating, and he chances a glance at Scott.

 

Scott is staring at him a little wide eyed and looks like he can _taste_ the huge crush Stiles has on Derek.

 

Stiles swallows back a whimper and is starting to feel a little dizzy again. Derek’s mouth is warm against his hand and the rate his heart his pumping can’t be healthy.

 

“Easy, easy,” Derek soothes, glancing at Stiles. “You’re alright.”

 

Stiles nods at him and tries to focus instead on the gravel under his fingers. Derek pulls back and starts to go through his pockets. Stiles frowns in confusion and a partial yearning for Derek’s mouth to be back on him.

 

Derek pulls a small baggie out of his back pocket. It looks like it’s filled with crushed green herbs.

 

Stiles squints his eyes at Derek and says, “Is that marijuana?”

 

Derek sighs.

 

“Oh my God. You’re a stoner? How does that even work? I thought werewolves couldn’t--”

 

“It’s not weed, Stiles,” Derek interrupts.

 

Stiles frowns more. “Then what is it?” he asks, glancing at Scott for confused support.

 

“Deaton’s herbs,” Derek says, opening the bag.

 

Stiles gulps. “You mean from before?”

 

Derek nods. Stiles whispers a quick profanity and Derek looks at him. “You’re alright. It’ll be alright.” He takes the herbs into his hand and holds it over Stiles’. “You ready?”

 

Stiles nods, exhaling slowly. Derek kneads the herbs into his palm and Stiles yelps in pain.

 

Scott darts towards them, saying, “Whoah, hey! What’re you doing?”

 

Stiles curls into Derek’s chest and digs his nails into Derek’s bicep, muttering, “Shit, shit, shit, shit!”

 

Derek continues to knead at the herbs and addresses Scott. “Don’t do anything. Deaton said this helps.”

 

“But you’re hurting him!”

 

“You think I don’t know that?” Derek rumbles. Stiles whimpers into Derek’s neck and Derek presses him against the jeep. “I’ve got you,” he growls. “I’ve got you, Stiles.”

 

Stiles chokes on groans of pain and continues to dig his fingers into Derek’s shoulder. His eyes are starting to ache from how tight he’s shut them.

 

The last of the herbs are ground into his hand and Stiles’ jaw clenches shut. The pain’s not as terrible as it was yesterday, but it’s still _awful_. He figures it doesn’t hurt as much because it’s not the wound in his stomach.

 

Derek’s shirt is dampening under his cheek and Stiles tries to will himself to stop tearing up. Derek has stopped moving and is now just holding Stiles’ hand. Stiles breathes through his nose, inhaling the scent of the alpha, and is surprised to find that it helps him regain his bearings.

 

He unclenches his jaw and notes the sensation of fabric scraping against his tongue. Wait a second. _Oh God._ At some point during the past minute or so, his teeth found their way over Derek’s shoulder.

 

He’s been _biting_ Derek’s shoulder for who knows how long now.

 

“God,” he whispers. Jesus, that’s embarrassing. He places a shaking hand over the damp spot on Derek’s shirt, and mutters, “Sorry.” Derek doesn’t respond and Stiles glances at him.

 

Derek is keeping his eyes closed and is taking deep breaths. He still has a strong grip on Stiles’ hand.

 

“Sorry,” Stiles says.

 

Derek opens his eyes and Stiles swallows when their red glow locks onto him. Okay, now Stiles is a little worried. And a little confused as to why Derek’s eyes have their red alpha glow going. “You okay?” Stiles asks tentatively.

 

Derek nods, but continues to stare. The longer they maintain eye contact, the more aware Stiles becomes of how _close_ they are. He’s pretty much on Derek’s lap and Derek is keeping him pressed against his own jeep, which isn’t leaving much space between their bodies. Derek’s arm is wrapped tight around his waist, his other hand holding Stiles’, and he’s still just _staring._

 

Stiles can feel his ears heating up.

 

A cough comes from a few feet away, and Stiles looks up at Scott and Isaac.

 

Oh, shit. He forgot they were there.

 

“You _sure_ you don’t want us to leave?” Isaac asks. “Give you guys a moment?”

 

“We- We’re not having a moment,” Stiles says, voice squeaking embarrassingly. Both Scott and Isaac raise their eyebrows at him, and Stiles wonders if eyebrow raising is a werewolf thing.

 

“You sure?” Isaac asks.

 

A weak sort of mewling sound escapes Stiles’ throat and Derek growls softly.

 

“What?” Stiles squeaks, blinking at Derek.

 

“Nothing,” Derek grumbles.

 

Stiles is relieved to see his eyes are back to normal. He huffs and says, “Why were your eyes red?”

 

“What?”

 

“Your eyes turned red,” Stiles repeats. “Why?”

 

Derek blinks at him, and then a clearer awareness appears in his eyes. He blinks some more and hastily starts to lift Stiles off of himself, saying, “It doesn’t matter,” as he does so.

 

Stiles wants to question the sudden retreat, but Derek moves over to the forgotten puddle of blood vomit and crouches next to it. “We should get this to Deaton,” Derek says.

 

Stiles considers pointing out the abrupt subject change.

 

“Does anyone have a clean bag on them?” Derek asks.

 

Isaac fumbles through his backpack and he says, “Um, I might.” He pulls out a sandwich bag and hands it to Derek. “It had my crackers in there earlier.”

 

Derek uses it to pick up the strange blob, before folding the bag over it and closing the seal. He looks over at Scott and Isaac. “Are you two coming to Deaton’s?”

 

Scott glances at Isaac, then at Stiles, and he says, “I guess. I mean, I kinda wanna know what that thing is.”

 

Isaac nods in agreement.

 

“Okay,” Derek says. “Scott, drive Stiles to the clinic. I’ll drive Isaac.” He starts walking to his camaro and Isaac hurries after him.

 

Scott and Stiles look at each other.

 

“Well that was weird,” Stiles mutters.

 

Scott nods.

 

“Why did he run away so quick? Did I say something? Do I smell bad?” Stiles asks, looking down at himself.

 

Scott approaches Stiles and carefully gets him to his feet, saying, “It was probably nothing. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

 

“I’m not ‘worried’,” Stiles grumbles defensively.

 

Scott puts his hand on his shoulder and helps him to the passenger seat. “Dude, don’t even. Do you forget I can smell feelings?”

 

Stiles relaxes into the seat, frowning. “Actually, yeah. I kinda did” The car shifts when Scott sits in the driver’s seat and Stiles turns to him. “Dude.”

 

Scott glances at him and turns the car on. “What’s up?”

 

“You had better drive carefully, man.”

 

“Stiles--”

 

“I’m not even joking. This is my _baby_ , and if you put even _one scratch_ on her--”

 

“Stiles, what do you think I’m gonna do?”

 

“I’ve seen you drive! You are _reckless._ ”

 

Scott chuckles and says, “Relax. I’ll be careful.”

 

* * *

 

 

They enter the clinic, with Scott rolling his eyes and Stiles yelling, “I am never going to trust your definition of ‘careful’ again! Because what you just did in my car was anything but! Did you even slow down at that stop sign?”

 

“Stiles, there wasn’t anyone around, it didn’t--”

 

“I don’t care!” Scott and Stiles turn to the others in the room, and Stiles points at Derek. “Next time, _you’re_ driving me. This kid,” he points at Scott, “is a _wild animal_.”

 

Deaton chuckles and says, “Well, at least we know you’re well enough to be making such a fuss, Stiles.”

 

Stiles’ cheeks heat up and he says, “I’m not making a fuss.”

 

All of the werewolves in the room snort in unison.

 

“You’re certainly not setting up your deathbed,” Deaton says.

 

Stiles grumbles to himself, but ultimately decides to hold his tongue.

 

Scott nudges him and says, “It’s okay, dude. I promise I’ll be more careful next time.”

 

Stiles sighs, and nods.

 

“C’mon,” Scott continues. “Let’s have Deaton take a look at you.”

 

They approach Deaton, and Stiles notices that Deaton is holding the bag with the weird blood blob.

 

“How are you feeling?” Deaton asks him.

 

Stiles shrugs. “Tired. Sore. On edge.”

 

“On edge?”

 

“Well, yeah. I never know when I might be in a lot of pain next.”

 

Scott rubs his back in friendly support.

 

Deaton nods. “I see. Then, it will relieve you to know you’re getting better.”

 

Stiles tilts his head. “What-- I am?”

 

“Yes. You see this?” Deaton holds up the blood blob. “This is a coagulation of pure faery poison. Meaning, your body is successfully expelling the poison at such a rate that the poison clumps together in its haste to leave your body.”

 

“Ew,” Stiles manages in response.

 

Deaton chuckles, and adds, “It may not sound pretty, but this clump is not bad news.”

 

“So, he’s gonna be fine?” Isaac asks.

 

Deaton nods. “He’s well on his way.”

 

Isaac makes a ‘huh’ sound and says, “That’s not as exciting as I was expecting.”

 

Derek turns to him and says, “Would you rather it be something worse?”

 

“No, no, that’s not what I meant,” Isaac hastens to say. “I just-- Nevermind, it’s alright. Are you ready to go, Scott?”

 

Scott stands up a little straighter and mutters a quiet, “Huh?”

 

“We were gonna go to your house, remember?” Isaac prompts, raising his brows at Scott.

 

“Oh, yeah, right.” Scott turns to Stiles and says, “We’re gonna go, since you’re not in any sort of immediate danger right now. Is that okay?”

 

“What? Yeah, that’s fine.” Stiles realizes that means he and Derek are gonna be left alone again, and his fingers start to tingle with nervous energy. “It’s cool man, you can go.”

 

“Okay.” Scott claps him on the shoulder and hands him his keys. “Let me know if something happens, okay?”

 

“Okay.”

 

Scott and Isaac leave, and Stiles turns back to Derek and Deaton. “Well. I love hanging out here, but I think I’m gonna go, too.” Stiles starts to inch towards the door, and if he has learned anything, Derek will join him. “So, I’ll see you later--”

 

“I’ll drive you,” Derek says.

 

Bingo.

 

“What? I can drive myself,” Stiles scoffs, trying to sound indignant.

 

In a lithe swoop, Derek takes the car keys from Stiles’ hand and saunters to the door, saying, “I’m driving.”

 

God, he is so hot.

 

“Fine,” Stiles sighs, following Derek out.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles is hunched over himself in the passenger seat, and it only takes three blocks before Derek asks him, “Stiles, are you okay?”

 

“Mhmm,” Stiles hums. “I’m fine. Just don’t drive so fast.”

 

“I’m not even driving fast--”

 

“Derek, don’t argue with me mister.”

 

Derek pauses and glances at Stiles. “How bad is it? Should we turn around?”

 

“No, no,” Stiles mumbles. “I’m fine. A little nauseous, but I’ll be okay. Just give me a while.”

 

Derek grunts and keeps his eyes on the road.

 

Stiles focuses on breathing in and out of his nose. He hates being so sick. He hates those goddamned faeries and their goddamned poisonous claws. God.

 

Stiles turns the air conditioner on higher, and straightens up a little once the cool air blows over him. He’s not going to throw up again. He’s _not._ This nausea is just an after effect from throwing up earlier. He rests his head back and continues breathing slowly through his nose.

 

He is not going to throw up in his own car. In front of _Derek._

 

“How are you doing?” Derek asks.

 

Stiles gives a little nod. “Better.”

 

“Okay. Are we headed straight home?”

 

Stiles’ heart stops. Holy shit. Derek just asked if they’re headed home. As in _we._ As in _their home._ Before his mind can run off with the idea of them owning a home together, he chokes out, “Yeah.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Wait.” Stiles remembers something. “Wait, what about your car? Shouldn’t we go back and get it?”

 

Derek shrugs. “It’ll be fine at Deaton’s.”

 

Stiles remembers something else. “Wait, I have to go to the store first.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I have to go get stuff for dinner. Remember? I’m making dinner? And you’re eating with us?”

 

“Oh. Right.”

 

“I mean, unless of course, you changed your mind. You don’t have to eat with us if you don’t want to.”

 

“No, no. I’d like to eat with you.”

 

Holy _shit_ , Stiles can’t breathe--

 

“What store should I take you to, Stiles?”

 

Oh, God. They’re gonna go grocery shopping together. Oh, _God._

 

“Um, I don’t know. It doesn’t really matter. Whichever one’s closer, I guess.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Derek, I can’t make this decision on my own.”

 

“I don’t know what you want from me.”

 

“Just choose one!”

 

“I’m not the one cooking, _you_ pick it!”

 

“Derek, just,” Stiles sighs and shift the loaves of bread in his arms, “it’s simple. Between french bread, dutch bread, and sourdough, which would taste best with spaghetti?”

 

Derek rolls his eyes and leans on the cart. “Fine. French bread.”

 

“Okay.” Stiles places the bread in the cart and shakes his head at Derek. “ _Finally_ made a decision.”

 

“You didn’t have to ask me and make a big deal out of it,” Derek says, pushing the cart away from the bakery section.

 

“Hey, I just didn’t want to grab a bread that you absolutely _despise_. I’m just touching base. You are the dinner guest, after all.”

 

“I didn’t realize the bread was so crucial.”

 

“Yeah, you wouldn’t.”

 

Derek nudges Stiles with his shoulder and Stiles’ heart stutters.

 

“You’re just uncultured swine,” Stiles adds.

 

Derek sighs. “Alright, alright, I get it. You know what you’re doing, and I don’t. So, what should we get next? We have bread, spaghetti, ground meat, mushrooms, onions, parmesan… What else should we get?”

 

“Hmm.” Stiles taps his fingers against his lips in thought. “Oh! Tomato paste and soy sauce!”

 

“Soy sauce?”

 

Stiles wants to take a picture of the face Derek is making. “Yeah! Soy sauce!”

 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Derek asks, raising his hands in disbelief. “You can’t mix asian food with italian!”

 

“Derek, Derek, Derek…” Stiles leans against the cart and brings his face closer to Derek’s. “You have further proven the point that you are uncultured swine.”

 

Derek leans in closer to Stiles, and Stiles hopes he isn’t blatantly blushing. “Stiles, Stiles.”

 

Oh holy _HELL_ it is so unfair for Derek to coo his name like that--

 

“I’m starting to question how much I should trust your word when it comes to the culture of food.”

 

“I suppose you have that right.” Stiles leans in more, until their noses are almost touching. “But you have never had my cooking. Derek, babe, I know what I’m doing.”

 

Derek’s breath is ghosting against Stiles’ mouth, and he whispers, “Did you just call me ‘babe’?”

 

Did he? Shit.

 

_Shit._

 

Holy _SHIT_ their faces are really close--!

 

Stiles jumps back, almost trips on the cart, and starts scrambling over to the next aisle. “Well, anyway, I think the soy sauce is over here!”

 

He stumbles towards the ‘Ethnic Foods’ section and grabs a bottle of soy sauce, knocking over a few boxes of crackers in his haste. “Here we go! This should be good, let’s go home!”

 

Derek pushes the cart around the corner and comes close enough for Stiles to give him the soy sauce. “Why are you yelling so much?”

 

“Yelling? Who’s yelling?! I’m not yelling! Why are _you_ yelling?!”

 

Derek snorts and looks taken aback by his own amusement. “I’m not yelling.”

 

“So what if you’re not yelling, it doesn’t mean I am!” Stiles swings his arms about and accidentally knocks a few boxes off the shelves. “Shit--”

 

Derek reaches out and gently grabs Stiles by the arms. “Calm down, Stiles.”

 

The contact catches Stiles by surprise. The warmth of Derek’s hands tingles through to his skin, and he inhales too sharply and starts choking on his own spit.

 

He leans over and coughs into his hand, and he can feel Derek awkwardly patting his back. “Whoah, Stiles, easy.”

 

Stiles shakes his head and wipes his hand against his mouth, coughing in short spurts. “I’m fine,” he wheezes.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles nods, eyes closed. “I’m good, just choked on some spit.” He leans back up, Derek’s hand still on him.

 

“Stiles, should we take you back?”

 

Stiles huffs. “To where? Deaton’s? I’m fine, it was just spit.”

 

“Your hand,” Derek mumbles.

 

“My what?” Stiles glances at his hand, and tries not to be surprised when he sees the blood spattered on it. “Oh.” He refrains from wiping it on his shirt, because that would be gross. “My bad.”

 

Derek frowns at him. “Are you okay?”

 

“What? Yeah, I’m okay. It doesn’t hurt.”

 

Derek carefully reaches out and takes a hold of Stiles’ wrist. Stiles’ heart thuds against his chest, eyes wide as Derek brings the bloody hand to his lips and licks it clean.

 

Stiles squeaks.

 

Derek pauses, Stiles’ hand against his face, before he straightens back up, eyes downcast. “Sorry. Clean,” he mumbles, and Stiles tries to pretend he didn’t notice the way Derek’s eyes flashed red.

 

“Oh, it--,” Stiles’ voice catches and he swallows roughly. “It’s fine. Thanks. We- We’re just lucky no one else is down this aisle.”

 

Derek looks back up at him, questioningly.

 

“I mean, one dude licking the hand of another dude in the middle of a grocery store is kinda weird,” Stiles says, shrugging.

 

Derek doesn’t respond right away. “Your nose is bleeding,” is what he finally says.

 

“I-- What?”

 

God, what is he, an anime character?

 

“Oh my God.” Stiles brings his hand up to his nose, catching the warm substance that’s leaking down.

 

Derek starts to lean forwards. “Are you--?”

 

“ _NO!_ ” Stiles shouts and holds up his unoccupied hand, stepping back. “No, no.”

 

Derek frowns. “What are you--?”

 

“No,” Stiles commands again, pointing at Derek. “Don’t lick my face, just let the blood run its course.”

 

“Jesus, Stiles,” Derek says, aghast. “I’m not about to stick my tongue up your bloody nostril.”

 

Derek has great timing, because he happened to say that right as a startled looking elderly woman turns down the aisle. She and Stiles lock eyes and Stiles tries to give her an encouraging, though resultantly awkward smile. “Nothing to see here, ma’am. It’s all good.”

 

She makes a few flustered noises, before promptly escaping the way she came.

 

Stiles huffs at Derek. “See what you did?”

 

“What _I_ did?”

 

“Yeah, you were the one talking about getting intimate with my bloody nose!”

 

“I was not--!” Derek cuts himself off and sighs. “At no point was I intending to lick your nose, Stiles. But I _was_ going to ask if you were okay.”

 

“Oh. Yeah.” Stiles nods and feels a little bit douchey. “Right. Yeah, I’m okay.”

 

“Okay. Can I get something for you?” Derek asks, motioning at Stiles’ face. Gosh, what a nice guy. Too hot to be nice. Derek is going to be the end of Stiles.

 

“No, no. Here, why don’t I, um,” Stiles clears his throat and pulls his wallet from his pocket. “Why don’t you go ahead and pay for everything, I’ll go to the bathroom and clean up.”

 

Derek takes Stiles’ wallet. “Alright, are you sure?”

 

Stiles nods, then regrets it when a few droplets of blood escape and hit the floor. “Oops. Uh- yeah, yeah, just take it. I’ll meet you at the car.”

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles stares at himself in the mirror, particularly at the blood smeared on his face. He’s becoming too familiar with this picture. Not necessarily the image of himself with a bloody nose, but rather just himself looking tired and depraved of blood in a mirror. Also, he’s getting really used to the sight of his own blood. Which probably isn’t a super good thing.

 

Stiles dampens a paper towel and starts cleaning up his face. He wipes around his nose and lips, careful not to irritate the skin too much. He wouldn’t want to be walking around with a red skin mustache. Once he’s cleaned away all the blood, he stares at himself a while longer.

 

God, he’s pale.

 

Maybe too pale. Like, he’s looking a little more ghost like than usual. Hopefully Derek won’t get all mother hen on him.

 

Although, the possibility of Derek fretting over him does have a definite effect on Stiles’ insides. As in, his stomach flutters and his heart stutters and his knees start to feel weak.

 

Stiles gulps and leans on the sink.

 

Lydia Martin never made him feel this way.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles is sitting in the jeep, head back and eyes closed, when Derek shows up with the groceries. He places the bags in Stiles’ lap, before starting the car and buckling up. “How are you feeling?” he asks.

 

Stiles grunts. “Alright. A little tired, but whatever.” He looks over at Derek. “How are you? How was it? Did you have any trouble buying it? Were there any hoodlums, any thieves? How are the goods, are they safe?”

 

Derek gives him a sidelong glance before saying, “Seatbelt.”

 

“Oh! Thanks dude. So, any trouble?”

 

Derek pouts out his lip in thought and shakes his head.

 

Stiles shifts the bag on his thighs. “So, no horror stories?”

 

“None. Although, there was this boy that started bleeding all over the merchandise.”

 

“Are you talking about me? You’re talking about me. Shut up, I didn’t bleed on everything.”

 

Derek snorts.

 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Whatever man, let’s just get home so I can start cooking.”

 

Derek pulls out of the parking lot and starts driving towards the Stilinski household. “Aye aye, captain.”

 

“Ooh, I like when you call me captain,” Stiles grins.

 

“Oh?”

 

“Oh yeah. Makes me feel important. And sexy.”

 

“Sexy, huh?”

 

“Totally. Captains are hella sexy. Have you ever seen ‘Master and Commander’? With Russell Crowe? Boy, let me tell you. Jack Aubrey, man.”

 

“Who’s Jack Aubrey?”

 

“The character Russell Crowe plays. Hey!” Stiles smacks Derek’s chest. “We should totally watch it sometime.”

 

“If you say so, captain.”

 

“Oh, I say so. That, and ‘Horatio Hornblower’.”

 

“Sounds kinky.”

 

Stiles blushes. “Oh my God, don’t say things like that. But seriously, we should watch it. Super good miniseries.”

 

“Are you sure we’ll have time to watch all this stuff?”

 

“Well, yeah! I mean, it’s not like either of us are going anywhere anytime soon. Unless you’re leaving.” Stiles’ heart stutters. “Are you leaving soon?”

 

“No, I’m not going anywhere. I’m just wondering if anyone is capable of living long enough to watch all this stuff.”

 

“Oh, right. Well, hey, don’t worry. If it comes down to it, we can just become immortal.”

 

“Oh yes, I forgot that we can easily do that,” Derek deadpans.

 

“Pfft, of course we can! Now that I’m a witch, I’m sure I could find a spell somewhere that’d give us all the time in the world to watch whatever we want.”

 

Derek hesitates and focuses on driving for a moment. “So, it’s a witch that you are?”

 

“Oh, I dunno.” Stiles rubs the grocery bag plastic between his fingers. “Deaton just said I was magic, he didn’t elaborate much further. What do you think?”

 

Derek turns down Stiles’ street  and says, “I don’t know if you’re a witch necessarily, but I think you _are_ magic.”

 

Stiles’ breath catches for a moment, and his stomach tightens in a way that’s almost painful. Derek probably didn’t mean it in the way that he thinks. But, it just sounded…

 

Derek pulls up to Stiles’ house and grabs the bags off of Stiles’ lap. “We’re here.”

 

“Uh.” Stiles nods at him numbly, and blindly unbuckles his seatbelt. “Okay.”

 

Stiles opens his door and swings his feet onto the driveway’s concrete. He must have moved too quickly or something though, because everything gets really fuzzy and the ground starts to tilt beneath his feet. “Whoah.” He throws his hand out to grab something and it slides against the side of his car, down along with the rest of his body. Black spots invade his vision and nausea swirls in his gut, and he recognizes Derek’s arm when he lands against it.

 

“Whoah, hey, Stiles.” Derek starts to lean him back up, and Stiles groans when all it does is worsen his vertigo. “Okay, okay,” Derek concedes, and gently lays him back on the concrete.

 

Stiles is sure that everything is spinning, but he can’t tell if his own eyes are open or not.

 

“What’s wrong?” Derek asks, but it sounds distant.

 

“M’dizzy. Spinning,” he explains. He lifts a finger and twirls it lazily as a demonstration.

 

“Alright, okay. Just lay back for a second, regain your bearings.”

 

Stiles groans in response, not trusting that he _wouldn’t_ throw up if he opened his mouth again. Rough fingers start to tentatively knead at his forehead, and Stiles can’t find the energy to react in any way.

 

Derek’s fingers rub slowly and carefully over Stiles’ temples, over his brow and near his hairline. He rubs his thumbs across Stiles’ cheekbones, before rubbing at the tips of his ears. Stiles isn’t entirely sure what Derek is doing, but it sure does feel good. It’s when Derek’s fingers are carding through his short hair that he realizes everything’s stopped spinning. He opens his eyes cautiously and stares at Derek’s face above his own.

 

Derek’s hands still, but they stay pressed against Stiles’ head. “Feel better?”

 

Stiles blinks up at him. “What did you do?”

 

Derek searches Stiles’ eyes for a moment, before mumbling, “I learned it from my mom.”

 

Stiles watches Derek’s face. “Oh,” he breathes. “What does it do?”

 

“I don’t know. Clears things up.” Derek’s hands run over Stiles’ head and settle at the base of his skull, where he starts to rub and massage. “It helps with energy, I think. Sometimes when my dad was sick or tired, she would do this. Or when he lost a lot of blood.” Derek stops and removes his hands. “I think you might have lost too much blood today, Stiles.”

 

Stiles licks his lips subconsciously. “Is that what’s going on?”

 

“I’m pretty sure.”

 

“Stiles nods and takes a deep breath. Excessive blood loss sounds like something in his life. Figures.

 

Something wet starts pooling around his fingertips then and Stiles frowns in confusion. He lifts his hand (with more difficulty than expected) to see what got on his fingers, and stares worriedly at the red liquid on his tips. “Wow, you weren’t kidding. I am losing too much.”

 

Derek blinks in confusion, then notices Stiles’ slightly raised hand. He takes Stiles’ hand and licks his fingers, and Stiles was so unprepared for the contact that he doesn’t manage to stop the squeak that he lets out.

 

Derek pauses. “It’s tomato sauce,” he says slowly. Derek and Stiles lock eyes.

 

“What did you do with the groceries?” Stiles asks.

 

Derek opens his mouth, doesn’t say anything, then looks over his shoulder. “Oh my God,” he whispers.

 

“What? What does that mean? Derek, what did you do?”

 

“Nothing,” Derek says, turning back to Stiles. “We should get you inside.”

 

“Hey, don’t try to change the subject!”

 

“That doesn’t matter right now. But seriously, do you think you can get up?”

 

Stiles bites his lip in thought, mulling over the prospect, and averts his eyes when he realizes he won’t be able to stand up alone. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to do it alone. He watches an ant crawl near his jeep’s tire before he mumbles, “I might need help.”

 

“That’s okay.” Derek wraps his arm behind Stiles’ shoulders and eases him into a sitting position. Stiles clasps his hand over Derek’s shoulder and leans on him once they’re upright. They start shuffling towards the house, when Stiles notices their bag of groceries lying on the driveway.

 

Derek must have thrown the bag of groceries on the concrete when he noticed Stiles falling, because the jar of tomato paste has shattered. The sauce is splattered all over the driveway and is inching towards the gutter.

 

“You barbarian,” Stiles chuckles in amazement. “This looks like a murder scene. Ha, dude, oh my God. I just realized. My dad knows you’re coming for dinner. It looks like you killed someone in his driveway as like a warning or something.” Derek almost drops him. “Jesus!” Stiles frantically grabs at Derek’s shirt, until Derek takes most of his weight again. “Kidding, I’m kidding. He won’t think that. Maybe.”

 

Derek quietly gets them to the door and opens it.

 

Stiles leans on the doorway and faces Derek. “Hey, look, it’s okay. It’ll be okay.” He pats Derek’s arm. “I promise my dad won’t flip.”

 

Derek stares at a spot near Stiles’ shoulder, and Stiles is struck by how vulnerable he looks. God, he’s so desperate for approval. Stiles is overwhelmed by a need to hold Derek and assure him that he is valuable and loved, that he’s not some waste of space that he probably thinks he is. But before he can do something so unwarranted, he starts to slip towards the floor again.

 

Derek dives in and grabs him before he can fall too far, and times stops.

 

Their faces are inches apart, their breaths are brushing across each other’s cheeks. They’re pressed together close enough that Stiles can feel Derek’s heart beating next to his own. Something in the air has shifted and he can’t help but focus on Derek’s lips. If he leaned in, just a little, he would be able to—

 

“Let’s get you to the couch.” Derek swallows roughly and he pulls them both up straighter. “You need to lie down.”

 

Stiles doesn’t react and lets Derek guide him to the sofa. He can’t form a complete thought. Something pivotal has just happened, but he can’t quite place it. Derek gently places him on the couch, and Stiles’ hands slide from Derek’s shoulders.

 

“Um,” Derek starts, “I’m gonna go clean up the driveway.”

 

Stiles nods noncommittally and watches him go.

 

Holy shit.

 

Stiles has a huge crush on Derek. Definitely. And maybe it’s too big of a crush, because now he’s starting to feel like Derek likes him back. Oh God, this is such dangerous territory. Derek can’t like him back. But…

 

Just now. Stiles feels like they almost kissed. HIs pulse starts to race and he squeezes the hem of his shirt. Did they almost kiss? He thinks they did. He’s never been kissed before, but everything in that moment was so still. So still, and so close.

 

Derek comes back in and Stiles hears him head into the kitchen. The grocery bag crinkles on the kitchen table. He appears in the doorway and watches Stiles cautiously. “Stiles,” he says.

 

Stiles’ heart threatens to beat from his throat, and he clutches his shirt tighter and makes a questioning hum in response.

 

“I’m gonna go to the store to buy us new sauce,” Derek says. “I’ll be back.” He grabs Stiles’ keys and steps out the door.

 

Stiles takes deep breaths. He likes Derek.

 

He _loves_ Derek.

 

The realization is like a punch in the gut. This consideration has been at the back of his mind for days now, but to be faced head on by the truth is, to be honest, terrifying. He loves Derek, with a ferocity that he’s not sure he’s ever experienced before.

 

And is it possible that Derek likes him back?

 

It’s just that, over the past few days, he feels like he and Derek have gotten closer. More comfortable together. And Derek has really been good to him lately. He’s just been spending so much time and effort on Stiles, and going to ridiculous lengths to keep him safe. Like spending time with him, and tending to his wounds, and—

 

Derek walks back into the house and Stiles jumps.

 

“That was fast,” Stiles gasps. “How did you get the sauce already?”

 

“Uh, no, I didn’t,” Derek says, walking into the kitchen.

 

“Then what did you come back for?”

 

Stiles can hear the sink turn on in the kitchen. “Are you cleaning something?”

 

Derek steps into the living room, a glass of water in hand. “Um”, he starts, then walks over to Stiles with careful steps. “Water helps with blood loss,” he says, handing the glass to Stiles.

 

Stiles tries not to touch Derek’s fingers when he takes it. “You came back for that?”

 

“Yeah.” Derek leans back up, and starts to shuffle back towards the door. “Uh, I’ll be back soon. Drink that. Get some rest.”

 

Stiles nods at him, and then he’s gone again. Stiles takes Derek’s advice and drinks the water, and as he does so his mind wanders to Derek’s behavior of the past few weeks.

 

He thinks about how Derek stayed with him in the hospital, how he brought Stiles home and cooked him dinner, how he stared overnight in Stiles’ room with him, how he wore Stiles’ shirt,  how hard he’s been working to keep Stiles alive…

 

And the licking.

 

God, the licking! Stiles starts to feel dizzy, but whether it’s from the blood loss or the rushing of his remaining blood to his groin, he’s not sure. He drinks more water to try to steady himself.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles is starting to doze off once Derek gets back. He blearily watches Derek bring new grocery bags to the kitchen and rubs his eyes. “Welcome back,” he mumbles.

 

Derek walks into the living room and leans over the couch. “How are you feeling?”

 

Stiles grunts. Apparently the trip to the store was good for Derek, because now he seems relaxed again. Maybe he needed to put distance between himself and Stiles for a little.

 

“Do you think you’ll still feel up for cooking?”

 

Stiles stares at Derek and rubs a hand over his cheek. Shoot, he could probably still cook. He might not eat as much as he would usually, though.

 

Derek glances down and idly runs his finger over the seam of the couch’s cushion. “Because I could cook. Or help cook, if you want.”

 

Stiles barely refrains from clutching his chest in love struck shock. Derek is offering to cook for _him_. “Really? I mean, no, no.” Stiles shakes his head at Derek. “You don’t have to do that, I can still cook.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

Stiles motions at himself. “Am I ever unsure?”

 

Derek snorts softly. “All the time.”

 

Stiles sighs. “Shut up.” He grabs the top of the couch for leverage and carefully swings his legs onto the floor. He pushes himself onto his feet and hopes that it’s not obvious that he’s swaying. He holds his hand up before Derek can say anything. “No, don’t worry, I’m fine. I can walk.”

 

“Stiles--”

 

Stiles points his finger at Derek. “No.”

 

Derek rolls his eyes, but lets Stiles walk to the kitchen by himself anyway.

 

Stiles’ steps are uneven and a little too shaky, but can you blame him? He has a hole in his stomach, come on. Once he’s in front of the stove and has washed his hands, Stiles carefully stretches his arms and torso. “Oh, God. Please, if we ever encounter faeries again, don’t let me near them.”

 

Derek kneels in front of one of the lower cupboards and pulls out a large pot. “Don’t worry.”

 

Stiles watches him fill the pot with water, before he decides to help Derek and go through another cupboard and pull out some small pans and a cutting board. He puts the pans on the stove and the cutting board on the counter.

 

He gets the groceries from the table while Derek sets the water to boil. “Hey, do you wanna cut some stuff up for me?”

 

Derek shrugs. “Sure.”

 

“Okay, dice these, will you?” Stiles hands the mushroom and onions to Derek, and then notices that Derek has brought out his claws. “Oh my God, no, wait, no, no. Do _not_ use your claws instead of a knife. What’s wrong with you?”

 

Derek glares at him in offense.

 

“I’m serious, when was the last time you washed your hands?”

 

“Just now!”

 

“Oh really?” Stiles scoffs and gets out a good cutting knife. “I didn’t see you washing your hands, so how do I know you did?”

 

“Because I _did_. But if you’re so delicate that you can’t function unless I use the knife, then fine. I’ll use the knife.”

 

“Okay, good.”

 

“Good.”

 

“Great.” Stiles and Derek stare each other down for a moment, until they reach an unspoken draw and return to their cooking duties. Stiles snorts to himself as he heats up the meat.

 

As the spaghetti noodles boil and the status of the meal progresses, Stiles adds the finishing touches to the sauce.

 

“Okay, and now all we’ve gotta add is the soy sauce...”

 

Derek crosses his arms. “I can’t believe you’re doing this.”

 

“Don’t be a baby. Trust me, this is good.” Stiles pours in two capfuls of soy sauce and stirs it in. After mixing it for a while, he brings the serving spoon up to his face and blows on it. “Would you like to do the honors?”

 

Derek blinks at him in confusion. “What?”

 

Stiles holds up the spoon. “Do you want a taste?”

 

“Oh...” Derek makes a sort of grimace, but he leans in anyways. Stiles guides the spoon to Derek’s lips, and tries not to short circuit from the fact that Derek is letting Stiles feed him. Derek blows on the spoon again, probably out of reflex, before he takes it in his mouth. He locks eyes with Stiles, and God _damn_ is the moment intimate.

 

At least, until the front door opens. Derek jumps back as the sheriff is saying from the foyer, “Oh, something smells great.”

 

Derek nervously nods at Stiles and mumbles out a quick, “It’s good. Good sauce.”

 

Stiles listens to his dad putting stuff down in the living room, before turning to Derek and saying, “I told you.”

 

His dad enters the kitchen then and Stiles notes how still Derek goes next to him.

 

His dad stops too and stares at the both of them. “Oh, Derek. I didn’t know you were here already.”

 

Stiles nods and motions a thumb between himself and Derek. “Yeah, he’s been helping me cook.”

 

The sheriff stares harder at the very, very still Derek. “Is that right? Well, we’re glad to have you.” He extends a hand, and when Derek takes it Stiles can clearly see them squeeze each other’s hands before giving a hard shake.

 

“Thank you, sir,” Derek says, obviously trying to lace his voice with confidence.

 

Stiles rolls his eyes at their testosterone infused action and turns to grab clean dishes. “When you guys are done sizing each other up, you can help me set the table.”

 

* * *

 

 

This is probably the most uncomfortable dinner that Stiles can remember having. No one has said _anything._ Well, except for him. At least at first.

 

When the dinner had started, he had no problem holding up a conversation. But after a while he realized it was less of a conversation and more of a speech.

 

So he sort of gave up.

 

And now _no one_ is trying to fill the silence. There’s just a bunch of really awkward chewing.

 

Stiles flicks his eyes between his dad and Derek and realizes that if something doesn’t happen soon, they’re all gonna be stuck in awkward dinner limbo for the rest of the night.

 

It’s time for some drastic measures to be taken.

 

“Well!” he says, but it accidentally comes out too loudly and turns more into a yell. He ignores how it makes his dad and Derek jump, and instead continues with his plan. “This was a lovely dinner, but I think I’m done.”

 

He starts collecting his dishes when his dad finally talks. “You’re done already? You’ve hardly touched your food.”

 

“Dad. Hole in my stomach, remember?” Stiles shakes his head lightly and pushes his chair away.

 

Alright. Here it goes.

 

He takes a step towards the sink, just before tripping and dropping his dishes. His plate shatters on the floor and he releases a yelp, and takes care to avoid the shattered ceramic when he lands. “Ow, God!”

 

Two voices shout, “Stiles!” and before either of them can approach him, Stiles smears spaghetti sauce on his hand to make it look like he got cut.

 

“Shit,” he says, and holds his ‘cut’ hand close.

 

His dad kneels in front of him and Derek hovers just behind the sheriff. Both look equally concerned. “Stiles, are you alright? Let me see that.”

 

His dad reaches for his hand, but Stiles pulls it back protectively. “It’s alright, I think. It’s just a cut.” He chances a glance at Derek.

 

Derek is frowning at him. He’s probably realized that Stiles is lying, what with there not being the smell of blood anywhere.

 

“It looks bad,” his dad says.

 

Stiles eyes him and starts trying to get to his feet. “I guess. It really stings. Can you come help me bandage it?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” His dad helps him up and they make their way into the hall. Stiles makes brief eye contact with Derek on their way out.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles is running his hand under the water, like his dad had prompted, and is doing all he can to keep a sigh in. “Dad.”

 

“I’m serious Stiles, we don’t want it to get infected.”

 

“I know that, but dad--”

 

“That floor was covered in glass and sauce, I’m sure that spaghetti sauce is the last thing you want to get in a cut--”

 

“Dad!”

 

The sheriff finally stops talking and Stiles takes his hand out of the water, revealing that there is no cut after all. “I’m fine.”

 

His dad frowns at the hand and then at Stiles. “What the hell? You’re not hurt?”

 

“No, I needed a good excuse to pull you aside.”

 

“My God Stiles, if you wanted to talk to me, you didn’t have to be so dramatic about it!”

 

“I dunno about that, dad, you seemed to be pretty riveted in your food. I mean…” Stiles inclines his head pointedly. “It was so interesting you didn’t even seem to be able to _talk_.”

 

His dad sighs in apparent shame, but doesn’t give a good response.

 

“Wasn’t this _your_ idea to have him over?” Stiles asks. “Why aren’t you trying to talk to him?”

  
The sheriff shakes his head. “I just… I don’t really know what to say.”

 

“ _Easy stuff_ ,” Stiles says. “How are you? How’ve you been? What do you think of this weather? Been up to anything recently? I’m sorry you got framed for murder!”

 

“Stiles--!” His dad raises his hands and motions for Stiles to quiet down. “Keep it down, kid!”

 

Not that that would do anything. Derek can probably hear everything they’re saying. Werewolf ears.

 

“Dad, you have to talk to him. You two just sitting there silently is literally _killing_ me.”

 

“Alright, alright,” his dad concedes, hands raised. “I’ll talk to him.”

 

They leave the bathroom and go back to the kitchen, to discover that Derek had cleaned up the mess of ceramic and spaghetti Stiles had left in his wake.

 

“Derek!” His dad says, astonished. “You didn’t have to clean that up!”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles chimes in. “You didn’t have to do that.” Derek is way too nice, way too considerate. “That was my mess, I was gonna clean it.”

 

Derek shrugs. “It’s alright. It was no problem.”

 

“Well,” his dad claps his hands together and blinks at the table. “I’d say dinner is just about over with. What say we,” he motions at the living room, “watch tv, have a beer?”

 

Derek presses his lips together and glances at Stiles. For guidance?

 

Stiles nods at him reassuringly, and mouths, “I’ll be there too, I won’t leave you guys alone.”

 

Derek stares at Stiles a second longer, before turning back to the sheriff to nod. “Alright. That sounds fine.”

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles settles into his sheets carefully and ignores how his stomach sloshes lightly.

 

Dinner went… bad. But after dinner, that went fine. His dad and Derek managed to hold decent conversation with very little prompting on Stiles’ part.

 

They didn’t talk about much, just about sports and New York, and how Derek has been handling himself lately.  His dad didn’t ask any questions about his family or about how he and Stiles started hanging out, thankfully. After a while, Derek seemed to have grown fairly comfortable with the situation.

 

At one point he had even _laughed._

 

It was a beautiful sound. And Derek has such pretty teeth. Probably a kind of creepy thing to think, but… Stiles is so smitten with Derek. With _all_ of Derek. Even his teeth.

 

“Stiles--”

 

Stiles flinches and immediately regrets moving, his stomach flaring up with a spike of pain. “ _Christ!”_ He rubs at his stomach and stares at Derek in the corner. “Stop doing that!” he hisses.

 

Derek steps out of the shadows, and the concern on his face becomes visible. “Are you alright?”

 

Stiles sighs indignantly and rubs at his stomach. “Yeah, I’m fine. But stop sneaking around so much. My dad is just starting to like you, it _would not_ be good for him to find you in here. In my room. _At night._ ”

 

“I know,” Derek huffs as he kneels beside Stiles’ bed. “You’re in pain.”

 

Stiles settles into his pillows more, hoping to relax to the tension and possibly lessen the pain in his body. “It’s whatever.”

 

Derek lifts a hand and a brow. “May I?”

 

“No, no, nuh-uh.” Stiles shakes his head in warning. “Do _not_ lick my stomach right now.”

 

Derek rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to lick you. Just ease some of your pain.”

 

Stiles blinks at him. “With the magic werewolf vein stuff?”

 

Derek falters at Stiles’ wording, before finally saying, “Yeah.”

 

“Hmm. Alright.” Stiles settles further into his cushions and wills his heart to calm down when Derek’s palm settles over his forehead. Almost immediately after, the pain starts to go away. Stiles closes his eyes and relaxes into Derek’s touch.

 

He feels so safe. And so sleepy.

 

“Better?” Derek whispers.

 

“Mm.” Stiles could easily fall asleep like this. Hell, he probably _is_ about to fall asleep like this.

 

“It’s alright,” Derek breathes. “You can relax. I’ll be here.”

 

Somehow, Stiles remembers how to control his mouth and mumbles, “You can sleep here too, if you want.” His words are slurred together, but he’s confident Derek can understand him regardless.

 

“Alright,” he hears Derek say. “I’ll keep you safe, Stiles. Go to sleep.”

 

 

 


End file.
